£DU€A2?I0H  LIBR. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

Education 

GIFT  OF 

Louise  Farrow  Barr 


THE 


STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE 


BY 


JULIANA   HORATIA  J2WING 

Author  of  "  Jackanapes,"  "  Daddy  Darwin's  Dovecot,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK:  46  East  14TH  Street 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 

BOSTON  :   ico  Purchase  Street 


Copyright,  1893, 

BY 

Thomas  Y.  Ckowell  &  Co. 

Education 

Add' 2 
GIFT 


Nortoooti  ^j3rrgg : 
Berwick  &  Smith,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


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st< 


SIS' 

"o 
Li'btacy 

H  But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears 
And  slits  the  thin  spun  life,  —  '  But  not  the  praise.'  " 

Milton. 

"  It  is  a  calumny  on  men  to  say  that  they  are  roused  to  heroic 
action  by  ease,  hope  of  pleasure,  recompense,  —  sugar-plums  of 
any  kind  in  this  world  or  the  next !  In  the  meanest  mortal 
there  lies  something  nobler.  .  .  .  Difficulty,  abnegation,  mar- 
tyrdom, death  are  the  allurements  that  act  on  the  heart  of  man. 
Kindle  the  inner  genial  life  of  him,  you  have  a  flame  that  burns 
up  all  lower  considerations.  .  .  .  Not  by  flattering  our  appe- 
tites;   no,   by  awakening  the   Heroic   that   slumbers   in    every 

heart  .  .  ." 

Carlyle. 


32C 


(4) 


THE   STORY  OF  A  SHORT   LIFE. 


'^©^c 


CHAPTER    L 

"Arma  virumque  cano."  —  sEneid. 

"Man  —  and    the   horseradish  —  are   most    biting  when 
grated.'1  —  Jean  Paul  Richter. 

"  Most  annoying !  "  said  the  Master  of  the 
House.  His  thick  eyebrows  were  puckered 
just  then  with  the  vexation  of  his  thoughts; 
but  the  lines  of  annoyance  on  his  forehead  were 
to  some  extent  fixed  lines.  They  helped  to 
make  him  look  older  than  his  age  —  he  was  not 
forty  —  and  they  gathered  into  a  fierce  frown 
as  his  elbow  was  softly  touched  by  his  little 
son. 

The  child  was  defiantly  like  his  father,  even 
to  a  knitted  brow,  for  his  whole  face  was 
(5) 


6  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

crumpled  with  the  vigor  of  some  resolve  which 
he  found  it  hard  to  keep,  and  which  was  sym- 
bolized by  his  holding  the  little  red  tip  of  his 
tongue  betwixt  finger  and  thumb. 

"  Put  your  hands  down,  Leonard !  Put  your 
tongue  in,  sir!  What  are  you  after?  What  do 
you  want?  What  are  you  doing  here?  Be  off 
to  the  nursery,  and  tell  Jemima  to  keep  you 
there.     Your  mother  and  I  are  busy." 

Far  behind  the  boy,  on  the  wall,  hung  the 
portrait  of  one  of  his  ancestors  —  a  youth  of 
sixteen.  The  painting  was  by  Vandyck,  and  it 
was  the  most  valuable  of  the  many  valuable 
things  that  strewed  and  decorated  the  room. 
A  very  perfect  example  of  the  great  master's 
work,  and  uninjured  by  Time.  The  young 
Cavalier's  face  was  more  interesting  than  hand- 
some, but  so  eager  and  refined  that,  set  off  as 
it  was  by  pale-hued  satin  and  falling  hair,  he 
might  have  been  called  effeminate,  if  his  brief 
life,  which  ended  on  the  field  of  Naseby,  had 
not  done  more  than  common  to  prove  his  man- 


DULCE  ET  DECORUM  EST  PRO  PATRIA  MORI.   7 

hood.  A  coat-of-arms,  blazoned  in  the  corner 
of  the  painting,  had  some  appearance  of  having 
been  added  later.  Below  this  was  rudely  in- 
scribed, in  yellow  paint,  the  motto  which  also 
decorated  the  elaborate  stone  mantelpiece 
opposite  —  Lcetus  sorte  mea. 

Leonard  was  very  fond  of  that  picture.  It 
was  known  to  his  childish  affections  as  "  Uncle 
Rupert."  He  constantly  wished  that  he  could 
get  into  the  frame  and  play  with  the  dog — the 
dog  with  the  upturned  face  and  melancholy 
eyes,  and  odd  resemblance  to  a  longhaired 
Cavalier  —  on  whose  faithful  head  Uncle 
Rupert's  slender  fingers  perpetually  reposed. 

Though  not  able  to  play  with  the  dog, 
Leonard  did  play  with  Uncle  Rupert  —  the 
game  of  trying  to  get  out  of  the  reach  of  his 
eyes. 

"  I  play  '  Puss-in-the-corner '  with  him,"  the 
child  was  wont  to  explain ;  "  but  whichever 
corner  I  get  into,  his  eyes  come  after  me.  The 
dog  looks  at  Uncle  Rupert  always,  and  Uncle 


8  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

Rupert  always  looks  at  me."  .  .  .  "To  see 
if  you  are  growing  up  a  good  boy  and  a  gal- 
lant young  gentleman,  such  as  he  was."  So 
Leonard's  parents  and  guardians  explained  the 
matter  to  him,  and  he  devoutedly  believed  them. 
Many  an  older  and  less  credulous  spectator 
stood  in  the  light  of  those  painted  eyes,  and 
acknowledged  their  spell.  Very  marvellous  was 
the  cunning  which,  by  dabs  and  streaks  of 
color,  had  kept  the  spirit  of  this  long-dead 
youth  to  gaze  at  his  descendants  from  a  sheet 
of  canvas  and  stir  the  sympathy  of  strangers, 
parted  by  more  than  two  centuries  from  his 
sorrows,  with  the  mock  melancholy  of  painted 
tears.  For  whether  the  painter  had  just  over- 
done some  trick  of  representing  their  liquidness, 
or  whether  the  boy's  eyes  had  brimmed  over  as 
he  was  standing  for  his  portrait  (his  father  and 
elder  brother  had  died  in  the  civil  war  before 
him),  there  remains  no  tradition  to  tell.  But 
Vandyck  never  painted  a  portrait  fuller  of  sad 
dignity,  even  in  those  troubled  times. 


WORD    AND    HONOR.  9 

Happily  for  his  elders,  Leonard  invented  for 
himself  a  reason  for  the  obvious  tears. 

"I  believe  Uncle  Rupert  knew  that  they 
were  going  to  chop  the  poor  king's  head  off, 
and  that's  why  he  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to 
cry." 

It  was  partly  because  the  child  himself  looked 
as  if  he  were  going  to  cry  —  and  that  not  f rac- 
tiously,  but  despite  a  struggle  with  himself  — 
that,  as  he  stood  before  the  Master  of  the 
House,  he  might  have  been  that  other  master 
of  the  same  house  come  to  life  again  at  six  years 
of  age.  His  long,  fair  hair,  the  pliable,  nervous 
fingers,  which  he  had  put  down  as  he  was  bid, 
the  strenuous  tension  of  his  little  figure  under  a 
sense  of  injustice,  and,  above  all,  his  beautiful 
eyes,  in  which  the  tears  now  brimmed  over  the 
eyelashes  as  the  waters  of  a  lake  well  up 
through  the  reeds  that  fringe  its  banks.  He 
was  very,  very  like  Uncle  Rupert  when  he 
turned  those  eyes  on  his  mother  in  mute 
reproach. 


IO       THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

Lady  Jane  came  to  his  defence. 

"  I  think  Leonard  meant  to  be  good.  I  made 
him  promise  me  to  try  and  cure  himself  of  the 
habit  of  speaking  to  you  when  you  are  speaking 
to  someone  else.  But,  dear  Leonard  "  (and  she 
took  the  hand  that  had  touched  his  father's 
elbow),  "  I  don't  think  you  were  quite  on  honor 
when  you  interrupted  Father  with  this  hand, 
though  you  were  holding  your  tongue  with  the 
other.  That  is  what  we  call  keeping  a  promise 
to  the  ear  and  breaking  it  to  the  sense." 

All  the  Cavalier  dignity  came  unstarched  in 
Leonard's  figure.  With  a  red  face,  he  answered 
bluntly,  "  I'm  very  sorry.  I  meant  to  keep  my 
promise." 

"  Next  time  keep  it  well,  as  a  gentleman 
should.     Now,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Pencil  and  paper,  please." 

"  There  they  are.  Take  them  to  the  nursery, 
as  Father  told  you." 

Leonard  looked  at  his  father.  He  had  not 
been  spoilt  for  six  years  by  an  irritable   and 


ARTS    OF    DIPLOMACY.  I  I 

indulgent  parent  without  learning  those  arts 
of  diplomacy  in  which  children  quickly  become 
experts. 

"  Oh,  he  can  stay,"  said  the  Master  of  the 
House,  "  and  he  may  say  a  word  now  and  then, 
if  he  doesn't  talk  too  much.  Boys  can't  sit 
mumchance  always  —  can  they,  Len  ?  There, 
kiss  your  poor  old  father,  and  get  away,  and 
keep  quiet." 

Lady  Jane  made  one  of  many  fruitless  efforts 
on  behalf  of  discipline. 

"  I  think,  dear,  as  you  told  him  to  go,  he  had 
better  go  now." 

"  He  will  go,  pretty  sharp,  if  he  isn't  good. 
Now,  for  pity's  sake,  let's  talk  out  this  affair, 
and  let  me  get  back  to  my  work." 

"  Have  you  been  writing  poetry  this  morning, 
father  dear?  "  Leonard  inquired,  urbanely. 

He  was  now  lolling  against  a  writing-table  of 
the  first  empire,  where  sheets  of  paper  lay  like 
fallen  leaves  among  Japanese  bronzes,  old  and 
elaborate    candlesticks,     grotesque     letter-clips 


12  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

and  paper-weights,  quaint  pottery,  big  seals, 
and  spring  flowers  in  slender  Venetian  glasses 
of  many  colors. 

"  I  wrote  three  lines,  and  was  interrupted 
four  times,"  replied  his  sire,  with  bitter 
brevity. 

"  I  think  P 11  write  some  poetry.  I  don't 
mind  being  interrupted.  May  I  have  your 
ink  ?  " 

"  No,  you  may  not ! "  roared  the  Master  of 
the  House  and  of  the  inkpot  of  priceless  china 
which  Leonard  had  seized.  "  Now,  be  off  to 
the  nursery  !  " 

"  I  won't  touch  anything.  I  am  going  to 
draw  out  of  the  window,"  said  Leonard,  calmly. 

He  had  practised  the  art  of  being  trouble- 
some to  the  verge  of  expulsion  ever  since  he 
had  had  a  whim  of  his  own,  and  as  skilfully  as 
he  played  other  games.  He  was  seated  among 
the  cushions  of  the  oriel  window-seat  (colored 
rays  from  coats-of-arms  in  the  upper  panes 
falling  on  his  fair  hair  with  a  fanciful  effect  of 


"  He  was    seated   among   the    cushions    of  the    oriel 


window-seat." 


(13) 


14  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

canonizing  him  for  his  sudden  goodness)  almost 
before  his  father  could  reply. 

"  I  advise  you  to  stay  there,  and  to  keep 
quiet."  Lady  Jane  took  up  the  broken  thread 
of  conversation  in  despair. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  years  ago." 

"  You  know  I  never  saw  either.  Your  sister 
was  much  older  than  you  ;  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  The  shadows  move  so  on  the  grass,  and 
the  elms  have  so  many  brandies,  I  t  J  link  I  shall 
turn  round  and  draw  the  fire-place,'  murmured 
Leonard. 

"Ten  years.  You  may  be  sure,  if  I  had 
been  grown  up  I  should  never  have  allowed 
the  marriage.  I  cannot  think  what  possessed 
my  father  —  " 

"  /  am  doing  the  inscription  !  /  can  print  Old 
English.  What  does  L.  diphthong  AL.  T.  U.  S. 
mean?"  said  Leonard. 

"It  means  joyful,  contented,  happy.  —  I  was  at 
Eton  at  the  time.     Disastrous  ill-luck !  " 


CROSS-QUESTIONS.  1 5 

"  Are  there  any  children  ?  " 

"One  son.  And  to  crown  all,  his  regiment 
is  at  Asholt.     Nice  famjly  party  !  " 

"  A  young  man  !  Has  he  been  well  brought 
up?" 

"  What  does  —  " 

"  Will  yon  hold  your  tongue,  Leonard? — Is  he 
likely  to  have  been  well  brought  up  ?  How- 
ever, he's  '  in  the  Service/  as  they  say.  I  wish 
it  didn't  make  one  think  of  flunkeys,  what  with 
the  word  service,  and  the  liveries  (I  mean 
uniforms),  and  the  legs,  and  shoulders,  and 
swagger,  and  tag-rags,  and  epaulettes,  and  the 
fatiguing  alertness  and  attentiveness  of  '  men  in 
the  Service.'  " 

The  Master  of  the  House  spoke  with  the 
pettish  accent  of  one  who  says  what  he  does 
not  mean,  partly  for  lack  of  something  better 
to  do,  and  partly  to  avenge  some  inward  vexa- 
tion upon  his  hearers.  He  lounged  languidly 
on  a  couch,  but  Lady  Jane  sat  upright,  and  her 
eyes  gave  an  unwonted  flash.     She  came  of  an 


1 6  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

ancient  Scottish  race,  that  had  shed  its  blood 
like  water  on  many  a  battle-field,  generations 
before  the  family  of  her  English  husband  had 
become  favorites  at  the  Court  of  the  Tudors. 

"  I  have  so  many  military  belongings,  both  in 
the  past  and  the  present,  that  I  have  a  respect 
for  the  Service  —  " 

He  got  up  and  patted  her  head,  and  smiled. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  child.  Et  ego  "  — 
and  he  looked  at  Uncle  Rupert,  who  looked 
sadly  back  again:  "but  you  must  make  allow- 
ances for  me.  Asholt  Camp  has  been  a  thorn 
in  my  side  from  the  first.  And  now  to  have 
the  barrack-master,  and  the  youngest  subaltern 
of  a  marching  regiment  —  " 

"  He's  our  nephew,  Rupert !  " 

"Mine  —  not  yours.  You've  nothing  to  do 
with  him,  thank  goodness." 

"  Your  people  are  my  people.  Now  do  not 
worry  yourself.  Of  course  I  shall  call  on  your 
sister  at  once.  Will  they  be  here  for  some 
time?" 


CROOKED    ANSWERS.  I  *]• 

"  Five  years,  you  may  depend.  He's  just 
the  sort  of  man  to  wedge  himself  into  a  snug 
berth  at  Asholt.  You're  an  angel,  Jane ;  you 
always  are.  But  fighting  ancestors  are  one  thing ; 
a  barrack-master  brother-in-law  is  another."  ' 

"  Has  he  done  any  fighting  ? " 

"  Oh  dear,  yes !  Bemedalled  like  that  Guy 
Fawkes  General  in  the  pawnbroker's  window, 
that  Len  was  so  charmed  by.  But,  my  dear,  I 
assure  you  —  " 

"  /  only  just  want  to  know  zvJiat  S.  O.  R.  T. 
E.  M.  E.  A.  means,"  Leonard  hastily  broke  in. 
"  I've  done  it  all  nozv,  and  shaiit  want  to  know 
anything  more." 

"  Sorte  me  a  is  Latin  for  My  fate,  or  My  lot 
in  life.  Lcetns  sorte  mea  means  Happy  in  my 
lot.  Lt  is  our  family  motto.  Now,  if  you  ask 
another  question,  off  you  go  !  —  After  all,  Jane, 
you  must  allow  it's  about  as  hard  lines  as  could 
be,  to  have  a  few  ancestral  acres  and  a  nice  old 
place  in  one  of  the  quietest,  quaintest  corners 
of  Old  England  ;  and  for  Government  to  come 


1 8  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

and  plant  a  Camp  of  Instruction,  as  they  call  it, 
and  pour  in  tribes  of  savages  in  war-paint  to 
build  wigwams  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  your 
lodge-gates !" 

She  laughed  heartily. 

"  Dear  Rupert !  You  are  a  born  poet !  You 
do  magnify  your  woes  so  grandly.  What  was 
the  brother-in-law  like  when  you  saw  him  ? " 

"  Oh,  the  regular  type.  Hair  cut  like  a 
pauper,  or  a  convict  "  (the  Master  of  the  House 
tossed  his  own  locks  as  he  spoke),  "  big,  swag- 
gering sort  of  fellow,  swallowed  the  poker  and 
not  digested  it,  rather  good  features,  accli- 
matized complexion,  tight  fit  of  hot-red  cloth, 
and  general  pipeclay." 

"Then  he  must  be  the  Sapper!"  Leonard 
announced,  as  he  advanced  with  a  firm  step  and 
kindling  eyes  from  the  window.  "Jemima's 
other  brother  is  a  Gunner.  He  dresses  in  blue. 
But  they  both  pipeclay  their  gloves,  and  I  pipe- 
clayed mine  this  morning,  when  she  did  the 
hearth.     You've  no  idea  how  nasty  they  look 


THEN    WOULD    HE    SING.  19 

while  it's  wet,  but  they  dry  as  white  as  snow, 
only  mine  fell  among  the  cinders.  The  Sapper 
is  very  kind,  both  to  her  and  to  me.  He  gave 
her  a  brooch,  and  he  is  making  me  a  wooden 
fort  to  put  my  cannon  in.  But  the  Gunner  is 
such  a  funny  man !  I  said  to  him,  '  Gunner ! 
why  do  you  wear  white  gloves  ? '  and  he  said, 
■  Young  gentleman,  why  does  a  miller  wear  a 
white  hat  ? '  He's  very  funny.  But  I  think 
I  like  the  tidy  one  best  of  all.  He  is  so  very 
beautiful,  and  I  should  think  he  must  be  very 
brave." 

That  Leonard  was  permitted  to  deliver  him- 
self of  this  speech  without  a  check  can  only 
have  been  due  to  the  paralyzing  nature  of  the 
shock  which  it  inflicted  on  his  parents,  and  of 
which  he  himself  was  pleasantly  unconscious. 
His  whole  soul  was  in  the  subject,  and  he  spoke 
with  a  certain  grace  and  directness  of  address, 
and  with  a  clear  and  facile  enunciation,  which 
were  among  the  child's  most  conspicuous  marks 
of  good  breeding. 


20  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"This  is  nice ! "  said  the  Master  of  the  House 
between  his  teeth  with  a  deepened  scowl. 

The  air  felt  stormy,  and  Leonard  began  to 
coax.  He  laid  his  curls  against  his  father's 
arm,  and  asked,  "Did  you  ever  see  a  tidy 
one,  Father  dear?  He  is  a  very  splendid  sort 
of  man." 

"  What  nonsense  are  you  talking  ?  What 
do  you  mean  by  a  tidy  one  ? " 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  storm  now ; 
and  Leonard  began  to  feel  helpless,  and,  as 
usual  in  such  circumstances,  turned  to  Lady 
Jane. 

"  Mother  told  me!  "  he  gasped. 

The  Master  of  the  House  also  turned  to  Lady 
Jane. 

"Do  you  mean  you  have  heard  of  this  be- 
fore?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  seized  his  son 
by  the  shoulder. 

"  If  that  woman  has  taught  you  to  tell  un- 
truths—" 


ACHIEVEMENTS    HIGH.  21 

Lady  Jane  firmly  interposed. 

"  Leonard  never  tells  untruths,  Rupert. 
Please  don't  frighten  him  into  doing  so.  Now, 
Leonard,  don't  be  foolish  and  cowardly.  Tell 
Mother  quite  bravely  all  about  it.  Perhaps  she 
has  forgotten." 

The  child  was  naturally  brave ;  but  the  ele- 
ments of  excitement  and  uncertainty  in  his  up- 
bringing were  producing  their  natural  results 
in  a  nervous  and  unequable  temperament.  It 
is  not  the  least  serious  of  the  evils  of  being 
"spoilt,"  though,  perhaps,  the  most  seldom 
recognized.  Many  a  fond  parent  justly  fears 
to  overdo  ■"  lessons,"  who  is  surprisingly  blind 
to  the  brain-fag  that  comes  from  the  strain  to 
live  at  grown-up  people's  level ;  and  to  the 
nervous  exhaustion  produced  in  children,  no 
less  than  in  their  elders,  by  indulged  restless- 
ness, discontent,  and  craving  for  fresh  excite- 
ment, and  for  want  of  that  sense  of  power  and 
repose  which  comes  with  habitual  obedience 
to  righteous  rules  and  regulations.     Laws  that 


22  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

can  be  set  at  nought  are  among  the  most 
demoralizing  of  influences  which  can  curse  a 
nation ;  and  their  effects  are  hardly  less  dis- 
astrous in  the  nursery.  Moreover,  an  uncertain 
discipline  is  apt  to  take  even  the  spoilt  by  sur- 
prise ;  and,  as  Leonard  seldom  fully  understood 
the  checks  he  did  receive,  they  unnerved  him. 
He  was  unnerved  now ;  and,  even  with  his 
hand  in  that  of  his  mother,  he  stammered  over 
his  story  with  ill-repressed  sobs  and  much 
mental  confusion. 

"W — we  met  him  out  walking.  I  m — 
mean  we  were  out  walking.  He  was  out  rid- 
ing. He  looked  like  a  picture  in  my  t — t — 
tales  from  Froissart.  He  had  a  very  curious 
kind  of  a  helmet  —  n — not  quite  a  helmet,  and 
a  beautiful  green  feather  —  at  least,  n — not 
exactly  a  feather,  and  a  beautiful  red  waistcoat, 
only  n — not  a  real  waistcoat,  b — but — " 

"Send  him  to  bed!"  roared  the  Master  of 
the  House.  "  Don't  let  him  prevaricate  any 
more  !  " 


L 


He  does  poke  with  his  spear  in  battle,  I  do  believe 
but  he  didn't  poke  us." 


AND    CIRCUMSTANCE    OF    CHIVALRY.  2$ 

"  No,  Rupert,  please !  I  wish  him  to  try 
and  give  a  straight  account.  Now,  Leonard, 
don't  be  a  baby ;  but  go  on  and  tell  the  truth, 
like  a  brave  boy." 

Leonard  desperately  proceeded,  sniffing  as 
he  did  so. 

"He  c — carried  a  spear,  like  an  old  warrior. 
He  truthfully  did.  On  my  honor !  One  end 
was  on  the  tip  of  his  foot,  and  there  was  a  flag 
at  the  other  end  —  a  real  fluttering  pennon  — 
there  truthfully  was !  He  does  poke  with  his 
spear  in  battle,  I  do  believe ;  but  he  didn't  poke 
us.  He  was  b — b — beautiful  to  b — b— be — 
hold  !  I  asked  Jemima,  '  Is  he  another  brother, 
for  you  do  have  such  very  nice  brothers  ? '  and 
she  said,  'No,  he's  — '" 

"Hang  Jemima!"  said  the  Master  of  the 
House.  "  Now  listen  to  me.  You  said  your 
mother  told  you.      What  did  she  tell  you  ?  " 

"Je — Je — Jemima  said,  'No,  he's  a  Orderly'; 
and  asked  the  way  —  I  qu — quite  forget  where 
to  —  I    truthfully    do.     And    next    morning    I 


24  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

asked  Mother  what  does  Orderly  mean  ?  And 
she  said  tidy.  So  I  call  him  the  tidy  one.  Dear 
Mother,  you  truthfully  did  —  at  least,"  added 
Leonard  chivalrously,  as  Lady  Jane's  face  gave 
no  response,  "at  least,  if  you've  forgotten,  never 
mind  :  it's  my  fault." 

But  Lady  Jane's  face  was  blank  because 
she  was  trying  not  to  laugh.  The  Master 
of  the  House  did  not  try  long.  He  bit  his 
lip,  and  then  burst  into  a  peal. 

"  Better  say  no  more  to  him,"  murmured 
Lady  Jane.  "  I'll  see  Jemima  now,  if  he  may 
stay  with  you." 

He  nodded,  and  throwing  himself  back  on 
the  couch,  held  out  his  arms  to  the  child. 

"Well,  that'll  do.  Put  these  men  out  of 
your  head,  and  let  me  see  your  drawing." 

Leonard  stretched  his  faculties,  and  per- 
ceived that  the  storm  was  overpast.  He 
clambered  on  to  his  father's  knee,  and  their 
heads  were  soon  bent  lovingly  together  over 
the    much-smudged   sheet   of   paper,    on  which 


L^TUS    SORTE    MEA.  25 

the  motto  from  the  chimney-piece  was  irregu- 
larly traced. 

"You  should  have  copied  it  from  Uncle 
Rupert's  picture.     It  is  in  plain  letters  there." 

Leonard  made  no  reply.  His  head  now  lay 
back  on  his  father's  shoulder,  and  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  which  was  of  Eliza- 
bethan date,  with  fantastic  flowers  in  raised 
plaster-work.  But  Leonard  did  not  see  them 
at  that  moment.  His  vision  was  really  turned 
inwards.  Presently  he  said,  "  I  am  trying  to 
think.  Don't  interrupt  me,  Father,  if  you 
please." 

The  Master  of  the  House  smiled,  and  gazed 
complacently  at  the  face  beside  him.  No  paint- 
ing, no  china  in  his  possession,  was  more 
beautiful.  Suddenly  the  boy  jumped  down  and 
stood  alone,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
and  his  eyes  tightly  shut. 

"  I  am  thinking  very  hard,  Father.  Please 
tell  me  again  what  our  motto  means." 

" '  Lcztus    sorte    mea,  —  Happy    in    my    lot.' 


26  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

What  are  you  puzzling  your  little  brains 
about  ? " 

"  Because  I  know  I  know  something  so  like 
it,  and  I  can't  think  what!  Yes  —  no!  Wait 
a  minute !  I've  just  got  it!  Yes,  I  remember 
now  :  it  was  my  Wednesday  text !  " 

He  opened  wide  shining  eyes,  and  clapped 
his  hands,  and  his  clear  voice  rang  with  the 
added  note  of  triumph,  as  he  cried,  " '  The  lot  is 
fallen  unto  me  in  a  fair  ground.  Yea,  I  have  a 
goodly  heritage.'  " 

The  Master  of  the  House  held  out  his  arms 
without  speaking ;  but  when  Leonard  had 
climbed  back  into  them,  he  stroked  the  child's 
hair  slowly,  and  said,  "  Is  that  your  Wednesday 
text  ? " 

"  Last  Wednesday's.  I  learn  a  text  every 
day.  Jemima  sets  them.  She  says  her  grand- 
mother made  her  learn  texts  when  she  was  a 
little  girl.  Now,  Father  dear,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  wish  you  would  do  :  and  I  want  you  to  do  it 
at  once  —  this  very  minute." 


THE    LOT    IS    FALLEN    UNTO    ME.  2J 

"  That  is  generally  the  date  of  your  desires. 
What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about, 
but  I  know  what  I  want.  Now  you  and  I  are 
all  alone  to  our  very  selves,  I  want  you  to  come 
to  the  organ,  and  put  that  text  to  music  like 
the  anthem  you  made  out  of  those  texts  Mother 
chose  for  you,  for  the  harvest  festival.  I'll  tell 
you  the  words,  for  fear  you  don't  quite  re- 
member them,  and  I'll  blow  the  bellows.  You 
may  play  on  all-fours  with  both  your  feet  and 
hands ;  you  may  pull  out  trumpet  handle ;  you 
may  make  as  much  noise  as  ever  you  like  — 
you'll  see  how  I'll  blow  !  " 


Satisfied  by  the  sounds  of  music  that  the 
two  were  happy,  Lady  Jane  was  in  no  haste  to 
go  back  to  the  library ;  but,  when  she  did  re- 
turn, Leonard  greeted  her  warmly. 

He  was  pumping  at  the  bellows  handle  of  the 
chamber  organ,  before  which  sat  the  Master  of 


28  THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

the  House,  not  a  ruffle  on  his  brow,  playing 
with  "all-fours,"  and  singing  as  he  played. 

Leonard's  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  he  cried 
impatiently,  — 

"Mother!  Mother  dear!  I've  been  wanting 
you  ever  so  long!  Father  has  set  my  text  to 
music,  and  I  want  you  to  hear  it ;  but  I  want 
to  sit  by  him  and  sing  too.  So  you  must  come 
and  blow." 

"  Nonsense,  Leonard  !  Your  mother  must  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Jane  !  Listen  to  this !  — 
In  a  fa — air  grou — nd.  Bit  of  pure  melody, 
that,  eh?  The  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey  seems  to  stretch  before  one's  eyes  —  " 

"  No  !  father,  that  is  unfair.  You  are  not  to 
tell  her  bits  in  the  middle.  Begin  at  the  be- 
ginning, and  —  Mother  dear,  will  you  blow,  and 
let  me  sing? " 

"  Certainly.  Yes,  Rupert,  please.  I've  done 
it  before  ;  and  my  back  isn't  aching  to-day.  Do 
let  me ! " 

"Yes,  do  let  her,"  said  Leonard,  conclusively; 


IN    A    FAIR   GROUND.  29 


? 


and  he  swung  himself  up  into  the  seat  beside 
his  father  without  more  ado. 

"  Now,  Father,  begin  !  Mother,  listen  !  And 
when  it  comes  to  '  Yea,'  and  I  pull  trumpet 
handle  out,  blow  as  hard  as  ever  you  can.  This 
first  bit  —  when  he  only  plays  —  is  very  gentle, 
and  quite  easy  to  blow." 

Deep  breathing  of  the  organ  filled  a  brief 
silence,  then  a  prelude  stole  about  the  room. 
Leonard's  eyes  devoured  his  father's  face,  and 
the  Master  of  the  House  looking  down  on  him, 
with  the  double  complacency  of  father  and 
composer,  began  to  sing : 

'The  lot: — the  lot  is  fallen  un-to  me';  and, 
his  mouth  wide-parted  with  smiles,  Leonard 
sang  also:  'The  lot  —  the  lot  is  fallen  —  fallen 
un-to  me.' 

'  In  a  fa — air  grou — nd.' 

*  Yea  !  (Now,  Mother  dear,  blow  !  and  fancy 
you  hear  trumpets  ! ) 

'  Yea  !  YEA !  I  have  a  good-ly  Her — i — 
tage ! ' 


30  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

And  after  Lady  Jane  had  ceased  to  blow,  and 
the  musician  to  make  music,  Leonard  still 
danced  and  sang  wildly  about  the  room. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid,  Mother  ?  Father  and  I 
made  it  together  out  of  my  Wednesday  text. 
Uncle  Rupert,  canyon  hear  it?  I  don't  think 
you  can.  I  believe  you  are  dead  and  deaf, 
though  you  seem  to  see." 

And  standing  face  to  face  with  the  young 
Cavalier,  Leonard  sang  his  Wednesday  text  all 
through : 

"  The  lot  is  fallen  unto  me  in  a  fair  ground ; 
yea,  I  have  a  goodly  heritage." 

But  Uncle  Rupert  spoke  no  word  to  his 
young  kinsman,  though  he  still  "  seemed  to 
see"  through  eyes  drowned  in  tears. 


CHAPTER    II. 

—  "  an   acre   of   barren  ground ;    ling,  heath,   broom, 
furse,  anything." —  Tempest,  Act  i.  Scene  I. 

"  Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ! 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name.1' 

Scott. 

Take  a  Highwayman's  Heath. 

Destroy  every  vestige  of  life  with  fire  and 
axe,  from  the  pine  that  has  longest  been  a  land- 
mark, to  the  smallest  beetle  smothered  in 
smoking  moss. 

Burn  acres  of  purple  and  pink  heather,  and 
pare  away  the  young  bracken  that  springs 
verdant  from  its  ashes. 

Let  flame  consume  the  perfumed  gorse  in  all 
its  glory,  and  not  spare  the  broom,  whose  more 
exquisite  yellow  atones  for  its  lack  of  fragrance. 
(30 


32  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

In  this  common  ruin  be  every  lesser  flower 
involved :  blue  beds  of  speedwell  by  the 
wayfarer's  path  —  the  daintier  milkwort,  and 
rougher  red  rattle  —  down  to  the  very  dodder 
that  clasps  the  heather,  let  them  perish,  and 
the  face  of  Dame  Nature  be  utterly  blackened ! 
Then  : 

Shave  the  heath  as  bare  as  the  back  of  your 
hand,  and  if  you  have  felled  every  tree,  and 
left  not  so  much  as  a  tussock  of  grass  or  a 
scarlet  toadstool  to  break  the  force  of  the 
winds ;  then  shall  the  winds  come,  from  the 
east  and  from  the  west,  from  the  north  and 
from  the  south,  and  shall  raise  on  your  shaven 
heath  clouds  of  sand  that  would  not  discredit 
a  desert  in  the  heart  of  Africa. 

By  some  such  recipe  -the  ground  was  pre- 
pared for  that  Camp  of  Instruction  at  Asholt 
which  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  thorn  in  the  side 
of  at  least  one  of  its  neighbors.  Then  a  due 
portion  of  this  sandy  oasis  in  a  wilderness  of 
beauty  was  mapped  out  into  lines,  with  military 


A  Highwayman^  Heath. 
(33) 


34  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

precision,  and  on  these  were  built  rows  of  little 
wooden  huts,  which  were  painted  a  neat  and 
useful  black. 

The  huts  for  married  men  and  officers  were 
of  varying  degrees  of  comfort  and  homeliness, 
but  those  for  single  men  were  like  toy-boxes  of 
wooden  soldiers  ;  it  was  only  by  doing  it  very 
tidily  that  you  could  (so  to  speak)  put  your 
pretty  soldiers  away  at  night  when  you  had 
done  playing  with  them,  and  get  the  lid  to  shut 
down. 

But  then  tidiness  is  a  virtue  which  —  like 
Patience  —  is  its  own  reward.  And  nineteen 
men  who  keep  themselves  clean  and  their 
belongings  cleaner ;  who  have  made  their 
nineteen  beds  into  easy  chairs  before  most 
people  have  got  out  of  bed  at  all ;  whose  tin 
pails  are  kept  as  bright  as  average  teaspoons 
(to  the  envy  of  housewives  and  the  shame  of 
housemaids !)  ;  who  establish  a  common  and  a 
holiday  side  to  the  reversible  top  of  their  one 
long  table,  and  scrupulously  scrub  both ;  who 


CAMP    AND    COMRADES.  35 

have  a  place  for  everything  and  a  discipline 
which  obliges  everybody  to  put  everything  in 
its  place  ;  —  nineteen  men,  I  say,  with  such 
habits,  find  more  comfort  and  elbow-room  in  a 
hut  than  an  outsider  might  believe  possible,  and 
hang  up  a  photograph  or  two  into  the  bargain. 

But  it  may  be  at  once  conceded  to  the  credit 
of  the  camp,  that  those  who  lived  there  thought 
better  of  it  than  those  who  did  not,  and  that 
those  who  lived  there  longest  were  apt  to  like 
it  best  of  all. 

It  was,  however,  regarded  by  different  people 
from  very  opposite  points  of  view,  in  each  of 
which  was  some  truth. 

There  were  those  to  whom  the  place  and  the 
life  were  alike  hateful. 

They  said  that,  from  a  soldier's  stand-point, 
the  life  was  one  of  exceptionally  hard  work,  and 
uncertain  stay,  with  no  small  proportion  of  the 
hardships  and  even  risks  of  active  service,  and 
none  of  the  more  glorious  chances  of  war. 

That   you    might    die   of    sunstroke    on    the 


36  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

march,  or  contract  rheumatism,  fever,  or  dysen- 
tery, under  canvas,  without  drawing  Indian  pay 
and  allowances ;  and  that  you  might  ruin  your 
uniform  as  rapidly  as  in  a  campaign,  and  never 
hope  to  pin  a  ribbon  over  its  inglorious  stains. 

That  the  military  society  was  too  large  to 
find  friends  quickly  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
that  as  to  your  neighbors  in  Camp,  they  were 
sure  to  get  marching  orders  just  when  you  had 
learnt  to  like  them.  And  if  you  did  not  like 
them  — !  (But  for  that  matter,  quarrelsome 
neighbors  are  much  the  same  everywhere. 
And  a  boundary  road  between  two  estates  will 
furnish  as  pretty  a  feud  as  the  pump  of  a  com- 
mon back-yard.) 

The  haters  of  the  Camp  said  that  it  had  every 
characteristic  to  disqualify  it  for  a  home ;  that 
it  was  ugly  and  crowded  without  the  appliances 
of  civilization ;  that  it  was  neither  town  nor 
country,  and  had  the  disadvantages  of  each 
without  the  merits  of  either. 

That  it  was  unshaded  and  unsheltered,  that 


HARD    LINES.  37 

the  lines  were  monotonous  and  yet  confusing, 
and  every  road  and  parade-ground  more  dusty 
than  another. 

That  the  huts  let  in  the  frost  in  winter  and 
the  heat  in  summer,  and  were  at  once  stuffy 
and  draughty. 

That  the  low  roofs  were  like  a  weight  upon 
your  head,  and  that  the  torture  was  invariably 
brought  to  a  climax  on  the  hottest  of  the  dog- 
days,  whep  they  were  tarred  and  sanded  in 
spite  of  your  teeth ;  a  process  which  did  not 
insure  their  being  water-tight  or  snow-proof 
when  the  weather  changed. 

That  the  rooms  had  no  cupboards,  but  an 
unusual  number  of  doors,  through  which  no  tall 
man  could  pass  without  stooping. 

That  only  the  publicity  and  squalor  of  the 
back-premises  of  the  "  Lines"  —  their  drying 
clothes,  and  crumbling  mud  walls,  their  coal- 
boxes  and  slop-pails — could  exceed  the  depress- 
ing effects  of  the  gardens  in  front,  where  such 
plants    as    were    not    uprooted    by    the    winds 


38  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

perished  of  frost  or  drought,  and  where,  if  some 
gallant  creeper  had  stood  fast  and  covered  the 
nakedness  of  your  wooden  hovel,  the  Royal 
Engineers  would  arrive  one  morning,  with  as 
little  announcement  as  the  tar  and  sand  men, 
and  tear  down  the  growth  of  years  before  you 
had  finished  shaving,  for  the  purpose  of  repaint- 
ing your  outer  walls. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  those  who  had 
a  great  affection  for  Asholt,  and  affection  never 
lacks  arguments. 

Admitting  some  hardships  and  blunders,  the 
defenders  of  the  Camp  fell  back  successfully 
upon  statistics  for  a  witness  to  the  general  good 
health. 

They  said  that  if  the  Camp  was  windy  the 
breezes  were  exquisitely  bracing,  and  the  cli- 
mate of  that  particular  part  of  England  such  as 
would  qualify  it  for  a  health-resort  for  invalids, 
were  it  only  situated  in  a  comparatively  inac- 
cessible part  of  the  Pyrenees,  instead  of  being 
within  an  hour  or  two  of  London. 


ET    CONSTRUCTA    SUAS    HABITANS.  39 

That  this  fact  of  being  within  easy  reach  of 
town  made  the  Camp  practically  at  the  head- 
quarters of  civilization  and  refinement,  whilst 
the  simple  and  sociable  ways  of  living,  neces- 
sitated by  hut-life  in  common,  emancipated  its 
select  society  from  rival  extravagance  and  cum- 
bersome formalities. 

That  the  Camp  stood  on  the  borders  of  the 
two  counties  of  England  which  rank  highest  on 
the  books  of  estate  and  house-agents,  and  that 
if  you  did  not  think  the  country  lovely  and  the 
neighborhood  agreeable  you  must  be  hard  to 
please. 

That,  as  regards  the  Royal  Engineers,  it  was 
one  of  your  privileges  to  be  hard  to  please, 
since  you  were  entitled  to  their  good  offices ; 
and  if,  after  all,  they  sometimes  failed  to  cure 
your  disordered  drains  and  smoky  chimneys, 
you,  at  any  rate,  did  not  pay  as  well  as  suffer, 
which  is  the  case  in  civil  life. 

That  low  doors  to  military  quarters  might  be 
regarded  as    a   practical   joke    on   the   part   of 


40  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

authorities,  who  demand  that  soldiers  shall  be 
both  tall  and  upright,  but  that  man,  whether 
military  or  not,  is  an  adaptable  animal  and  can 
get  used  to  anything ;  and  indeed  it  was  only 
those  officers  whose  thoughts  were  more  active 
than  their  instincts  who  invariably  crushed  their 
best  hats  before  starting  for  town. 

That  huts  (if  only  they  were  a  little  higher !) 
had  a  great  many  advantages  over  small  houses, 
which  were  best  appreciated  by  those  who  had 
tried  drawing  lodging  allowance  and  living  in 
villas,  and  which  would  be  fully  known  if  ever 
the  Lines  were  rebuilt  in  brick. 

That  on  moonlit  nights  the  airs  that  fanned 
the  silent  Camp  were  as  dry  and  wholesome  as 
by  day;  that  the  song  of  the  distant  nightingale 
could  be  heard  there  ;  and  finally,  that  from  end 
to  end  of  this  dwelling-place  of  ten  thousand 
to  (on  occasion)  twenty  thousand  men,  a  woman 
might  pass  at  midnight  with  greater  safety  than 
in  the  country  lanes  of  a  rural  village  or  a  police 
protected  thoroughfare  of  the  metropolis. 


AUF    WIEDER    SEHN  !  41 

But,  in  truth,  the  Camp's  best  defence  in  the 
hearts  of  its  defenders  was  that  it  was  a  camp, 
—  military  life  in  epitome,  with  all  its  defects 
and  all  its  charm  ;  not  the  least  of  which,  to 
some  whimsical  minds,  is,  that  it  represents,  as 
no  other  phase  of  society  represents,  the  human 
pilgrimage  in  brief. 

Here  be  sudden  partings,  but  frequent 
re-unions ;  the  charities  and  courtesies  of  an 
uncertain  life  lived  largely  in  common ;  the 
hospitality  of  passing  hosts  to  guests  who  tarry 
but  a  day. 

Here,  surely,  should  be  the  home  of  the  sage 
as  well  as  the  soldier,  where  every  hut  might 
fitly  carry  the  ancient  motto,  "  Dwell  as  if  about 
to  Depart,"  where  work  bears  the  nobler  name 
of  duty,  and  where  the  living,  hastening  on  his 
business  amid  "the  hurryings  of  this  life,"1 
must  pause  and  stand  to  salute  the  dead  as  he 
is  carried  by.  , 

Bare  and  dusty  are  the  Parade  Grounds,  but 

1  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


42  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

they  are  thick  with  memories.  Here  were 
blessed  the  colors  that  became  a  young  man's 
shroud  that  they  might  not  be  a  nation's  shame. 
Here  march  and  music  welcome  the  coming  and 
speed  the  parting  regiments.  On  this  parade 
the  rising  sun  is  greeted  with  gun-fire  and 
trumpet  clarions  shriller  than  the  cock,  and 
there  he  sets  to  a  like  salute  with  tuck  of  drum. 
Here  the  young  recruit  drills,  the  warrior  puts 
on  his  medal,  the  old  pensioner  steals  back  to 
watch  them,  and  the  soldiers'  children  play  — 
sometimes  at  fighting  or  flag-wagging,1  but 
oftener  at  funerals  ! 

1  "  Flag-wagging,"    a   name    among   soldiers'    children    for 
"  signalling." 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  Ut  migraturus  habita"  (Dwell  as  if  about  to  Depart). 
—  Old  House  Motto. 

The  Barrack  Master's  wife  was  standing  in 
the  porch  of  her  hut,  the  sides  of  which  were 
of  the  simplest  trellis-work  of  crossed  fir-poles, 
through  which  she  could  watch  the  proceedings 
of  the  gardener  without  baking  herself  in  the 
sun.  Suddenly  she  snatched  up  a  green-lined 
white  umbrella,  that  had  seen  service  in  India, 
and  ran  out. 

"  O'Reilly  !  what  is  that  baby  doing? 
There !  that  white-headed  child  crossing  the 
parade  with  a  basket  in  its  little  arms !  It's 
got  nothing  on  its  head.  Please  go  and  take 
it  to  its  mother  before  it  gets  sunstroke." 

The  gardener  was  an  Irish  soldier  —  an  old 
(43) 


44  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

soldier,  as  the  handkerchief  depending  from  his 
cap,  to  protect  the  nape  of  his  neck  from  the 
sun,  bore  witness.  He  was  a  tall  man,  and 
stepped  without  ceremony  over  the  garden 
paling  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  parade. 
But  he  stepped  back  again  at  once,  and 
resumed   his    place   in   the   garden. 

"  He's  Corporal  Macdonald's  child,  madam. 
The  Blind  Baby,  they  call  him.  Not  a  bit  of 
harm  will  he  get.  They're  as  hard  as  nails  the 
whole  lot  of  them.  If  I  was  to  take  him  in 
now,  he'd  be  out  before  my  back  was  turned. 
His  brothers  and  sisters  are  at  the  school,  and 
Blind  Baby's  just  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long, 
playing  at  funerals  all  the  time." 

"Blind!  Is  he  blind?  Poor  little  soul! 
But  he's  got  a  great  round  potato-basket 
in  his  arms.  Surely  they  don't  make  that 
afflicted  infant  fetch  and  carry  ? " 

O'Reilly  laughed  so  heartily,  that  he  scan- 
dalized his  own  sense  of  propriety. 

"  I   ask  your  pardon,  madam.      But   there's 


..v^*  *** 


O'Reilly !  what  is  that  baby  doing  ?  " 
(45) 


46  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

no  fear  that  Blind  Baby'll  fetch  and  carry. 
Every  man  in  the  Lines  is  his  nurse." 

"  But  what's  he  doing  with  that  round 
hamper   as    big   as    himself  ? " 

"  It's  just  a  make-believe  for  the  Big  Drum, 
madam.  The  '  Dead  March '  is  his  whole  de- 
light. 'Twas  only  yesterday  I  said  to  his 
father,  'Corporal,'  I  says,  'we'll  live  to  see 
Blind  Baby  a  band-master  yet,'  I  says;  'it's  a 
pure  pleasure  to  see  him  beat  out  a  tune  with 
his  closed  fist.'  " 

"Will  I  go  and  borrow  a  barrow  now, 
madam?"  added  O'Reilly,  returning  to  his 
duties.  He  was  always  willing  and  never 
idle,  but  he  liked  change  of  occupation. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  go  away.  We  shan't  want 
a  wheelbarrow  till  we've  finished  trenching  this 
border,  and  picking  out  the  stones.  Then  you 
can  take  them  away  and  fetch  the  new  soil." 

"  You're  at  a  deal  of  pains,  madam,  and  it's 
a  poor  patch  when  all's  done  to  it." 

"I  can't  live  without  flowers,  O'Reilly,  and 


GARDENING.  47 

the  Colonel  says  I  may  do  what  I  like  with 
this  bare  strip." 

"  Ah !  Don't  touch  the  dirty  stones  with 
your  fingers,  ma'am.  I'll  have  the  lot  picked 
in  no  time  at  all." 

"  You  see,  O'Reilly,  you  can't  grow  flowers 
in  sand  unless  you  can  command  water,  and 
the  Colonel  tells  me  that  when  it's  hot  here 
the  water  supply  runs  short,  and  we  mayn't 
water  the  garden  from  the  pumps." 

O'Reilly  smiled  superior. 

"The  Colonel  will  get  what  water  he  wants, 
ma'am.  Never  fear  him !  There's  ways  and 
means.  Look  at  the  gardens  of  the  Royal 
Engineers'  Lines.  In  the  hottest  of  summer 
weather  they're  as  green  as  Old  Ireland ;  and 
it's  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Royal  Engi- 
neers can  requisition  showers  from  the  skies 
when  they  need  them,  more  than  the  rest  of 
Her  Majesty's  forces." 

"  Perhaps  the  Royal  Engineers  do  what  I 
mean  to  do  —  take  more  pains  than  usual;  and 


48  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

put  in  soil  that  will  retain  some  moisture.  One 
can't  make  poor  land  yield  anything  without 
pains,  O'Reilly,  and  this  is  like  the  dry  bed  of  a 
stream  —  all  sand  and  pebbles." 

"That's  as  true  a  word  as  ever  ye  spoke, 
madam,  and  if  it  were  not  that  'twould  be  tak- 
ing a  liberty,  I'd  give  ye  some  advice  about 
gardening  in  Camp.  It's  not  the  first  time 
I'm  quartered  in  Asholt,  and  I  know  the  ways 
of  it." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  advice.  You  know 
I  have  never  been  stationed  here  before." 

"  'Tis  an  old  soldier's  advice,  madam." 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  the  lady,  warmly. 

O'Reilly  was  kneeling  to  his  work.  He  now 
sat  back  on  his  heels,  and  not  without  a  cer- 
tain dignity  that  bade  defiance  to  his  surround- 
ings he  commenced  his  oration. 

"  Please  God  to  spare  you  and  the  Colonel, 
madam,  to  put  in  his  time  as  Barrack  Master 
at  this  station,  ye'll  see  many  a  regiment  come 
and  go,  and  be  making  themselves  at  home  all 


EXPERIENCE  KEEPS  A  DEAR  SCHOOL.    49 

along.  And  anny  one  that  knows  this  place, 
and  the  nature  of  the  soil,  tear-rs  would  over- 
flow his  eyes  to  see  the  regiments  come  for 
drill,  and  betake  themselves  to  gardening. 
Maybe  the  boys  have  marched  in  footsore 
and  fasting,  in  the  hottest  of  weather,  to  cold 
comfort  in  empty  quarters,  and  they'll  not  let 
many  hours  flit  over  their  heads  before  some  of 
'em  '11  get  possession  of  a  load  of  green  turf, 
and  be  laying  it  down  for  borders  around  their 
huts.  It's  the  young  ones  I'm  speaking  of ; 
and  there  ye'll  see  them,  in  the  blazing  sun, 
with  their  shirts  open,  and  not  a  thing  on  their 
heads,  squaring  and  fitting  the  turfs  for  bare 
life,  watering  them  out  of  old  pie-dishes  and 
stable-buckets  and  whatnot,  singing  and  whis- 
tling, and  fetching  and  carrying  between  the 
pump  and  their  quarters,  just  as  cheerful  as  so 
many  birds  building  their  nests  in  the  spring." 

"A  very  pretty  picture,  O'Reilly.  Why 
should  it  bring  tears  to  your  eyes  ?  An  old 
soldier   like   you   must    know   that    one   would 


50  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

never  have  a  home  in  quarters  at  all  if  one  did 
not  begin  to  make  it  at  once." 

"True  for  you,  madam.  Not  a  doubt  of  it. 
But  it  goes  to  your  heart  to  see  labor  thrown 
away ;  and  it's  not  once  in  a  hundred  times 
that  grass  planted  like  that  will  get  hold  of  a 
soil  like  this,  and  the  boys  themselves  at  drill  all 
along,  or  gone  out  under  canvas  in  Bottomless 
Bog  before  the  week's  over,  as  likely  as  not." 

"That  would  be  unlucky.  But  one  must 
take  one's  luck  as  it  comes.  And  you've  not 
told  me,  now,  what  you  do  advise  for  Camp 
Gardens." 

"That's  just  what  I'm  coming  to,  ma'am. 
See  the  old  soldier  !  What  does  he  do  ?  Turns 
the  bucket  upside  down  outside  his  hut,  and 
sits  on  it,  with  a  cap  on  his  head,  and  a  hand- 
kerchief down  his  back,  and  some  tin  tacks,  and 
a  ball  of  string  —  trust  a  soldier's  eye  to  get 
the  lines  straight  —  every  one  of  them  begin- 
ning on  the  ground  and  going  nearly  up  to  the 
roof." 


SOW    BEANS    IN    THE    MUD.  5 1 

"  For  creepers,  I  suppose  ?  What  does  the 
old  soldier  plant  ?" 

"Beans,  madam  —  scarlet  runners.  These 
are  the  things  for  Asholt.  A  few  beans  are 
nothing  in  your  baggage.  They  like  a  warm 
place,  and  when  they're  on  the  sunny  side  of 
a  hut  they've  got  it,  and  no  mistake.  They're 
growing  while  you're  on  duty.  The  flowers  are 
the  right  soldier's  color ;  and  when  it  comes  to 
the  beans,  ye  may  put  your  hand  out  of  the 
window  and  gather  them,  and  no  trouble  at  all." 

"  The  old  soldier  is  very  wise ;  but  I  think  I 
must  have  more  flowers  than  that.  So  I  plant, 
and  if  they  die  I  am  very  sorry  ;  and  if  they 
live,  and  other  people  have  them,  I  try  to  be 
glad.  One  ought  to  learn  to  be  unselfish, 
O'Reilly,  and  think  of  one's  successors." 

"And  that's  true,  madam;  barring  that  I 
never  knew  any  one's  successor  to  have  the 
same  fancies  as  himself :  one  plants  trees  to 
give  shelter,  and  the  next  cuts  them  down  to 
let  in  the  air." 


52  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  only  way  is  to  be  pre- 
pared for  the  worst.  The  rose  we  planted 
yesterday  by  the  porch  is  a  great  favorite  of 
mine ;  but  the  Colonel  calls  it  '  Marching 
Orders.'  It  used  to  grow  over  my  window  in 
my  old  home,  and  I  have  planted  it  by  every 
home  I  have  had  since  ;  but  the  Colonel  says 
whenever  it  settled  and  began  to  flower  the 
regiment  got  the  route." 

"  The  Colonel  must  name  it  again,  madam," 
said  O'Reilly,  gallantly,  as  he  hitched  up  the 
knees  of  his  trousers,  and  returned  ,  to  the 
border.  "It  shall  be  'Standing  Orders'  now, 
if  soap  and  water  can  make  it  blossom,  and  I'm 
spared  to  attend  to  it  all  the  time.  Many  a 
hundred  roses  may  you  and  the  Colonel  pluck 
from  it,  and  never  one  with  a  thorn  !  " 

" Thank  you,  O'Reilly;  thank  you  very 
much.  Soapy  water  is  very  good  for  roses,  I 
believe  ?  " 

"  It  is  so,  madam.  I  put  in  a  good  deal  of 
my  time  as  officer's  servant  after  I  was  in  the 


AND    THEY  LL    GROW    LIKE    WOOD.  53 

Connaught  Rangers,  and  the  Captain  I  was 
with  one  time  was  as  fond  of  flowers  as  your- 
self. There  was  a  mighty  fine  rose-bush  by  his 
quarters,  and  every  morning  I  had  to  carry  out 
his  bath  to  it.  He  used  more  soap  than  most 
gentlemen,  and  when  he  sent  me  to  the  town 
for  it  — 'It's  not  for  myself,  O'Reilly,'  he'd 
say,  'so  much  as  for  the  Rose.  Bring  large 
tablets,'  he'd  say,  '  and  the  best  scented  ye 
can  get.  The  roses'll  be  the  sweeter  for  it." 
That  was  his  way  of  joking,  and  never  a  smile 
on  his  face.  He  was  odd  in  many  of  his  ways, 
was  the  Captain,  but  he  was  a  grand  soldier 
entirely ;  a  good  officer,  and  a  good  friend  to 
his  men,  and  to  the  wives  and  children  no  less. 
The  regiment  was  in  India  when  he  died  of 
cholera,  in  twenty-four  hours,  do  what  I  would. 
'Oh,  the  cramp  in  my  legs,  O'Reilly!'  he  says. 
'  God  bless  ye,  Captain,'  says  I,  '  never  mind 
your  legs ;  I'd  manage  the  cramp,  sir,'  I  says, 
1  if  I  could  but  keep  up  your  heart.'  '  Ye'll  not 
do  that,  O'Reilly,'  he  says,  'for  all  your  good- 


54  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

ness  ;  I  lost  it  too  long  ago.'  That  was  his  way 
of  joking,  and  never  a  smile  on  his  face.  'Twas 
a  pestilential  hole  we  were  in,  and  that's  the 
truth ;  and  cost  Her  Majesty  more  in  lives  than 
would  have  built  healthy  quarters,  and  given  us 
every  comfort ;  but  the  flowers  throve  there  if 
we  didn't,  and  the  Captain's  grave  was  filled  till 
ye  couldn't  get  the  sight  of  him  for  roses.  He 
was  a  good  officer,  and  beloved  of  his  men  ;  and 
better  master  never  a  man  had ! " 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  O'Reilly  drew  his 
sleeve  sharply  across  his  eyes,  and  then  bent 
again  to  his  work,  which  was  why  he  failed  to 
see  what  the  Barrack  Master's  wife  saw,  and 
did  not  for  some  moments  discover  that  she 
was  no  longer  in  the  garden.  The  matter  was 
this: 

The  Barrack  Master's  quarters  were  close  to 
the  Iron  Church,  and  the  straight  road  that  ran 
past  both  was  crossed,  just  beyond  the  church, 
by  another  straight  road,  which  finally  led  out 
to  and  joined  a  country  highway.     From   this 


THE    SOLDIERS    FUNERAL.  55 

highway  an  open  carriage  and  pair  were  being 
driven  into  the  Camp  as  a  soldier's  funeral  was 
marching  to  church.  The  band  frightened  the 
horses,  who  were  got  past  with  some  difficulty, 
and  having  turned  the  sharp  corner,  were 
coming  rapidly  towards  the  Barrack  Master's 
hut,  when  Blind  Baby,  excited  by  the  band, 
strayed  from  his  parade-ground,  tumbled,  basket 
and  all,  into  the  ditch  that  divided  it  from  the 
road,  picked  up  himself  and  his  basket,  and  was 
sturdily  setting  forth  across  the  road  just  as  the 
frightened  horses  came  plunging  to  the  spot. 

The  Barrack  Master's  wife  was  not  very 
young,  and  not  very  slender.  Rapid  move- 
ments were  not  easy  to  her.  She  was  nervous 
also,  and  could  never  afterwards  remember  what 
she  did  with  .herself  in  those  brief  moments 
before  she  became  conscious  that  the  footman 
had  got  to  the  horses'  heads,  and  that  she  her- 
self was  almost  under  their  feet,  with  Blind 
Baby  in  her  arms.  Blind  Baby  himself  recalled 
her  to  consciousness  by  the  ungrateful  fashion 


56  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

in  which  he  pummelled  his  deliverer  with  his 
fists  and  howled  for  his  basket,  which  had 
rolled  under  the  carriage  to  add  to  the  con- 
fusion. Nor  was  he  to  be  pacified  till  O'Reilly 
took  him  from  her  arms. 

By  this  time  men  had  rushed  from  every  hut 
and  kitchen,  wash-place  and  shop,  and  were 
swarming  to  the  rescue  ;  and  through  the  whole 
disturbance,  like  minute-guns,  came  the  short 
barks  of  a  black  puppy,  which  Leonard  had 
insisted  upon  taking  with  him  to  show  to  his 
aunt  despite  the  protestations  of  his  mother : 
for  it  was  Lady  Jane's  carriage,  and  this  was 
how  the  sisters  met. 

They  had  been  sitting  together  for  some 
time,  so  absorbed  by  the  strangeness  and  the 
pleasure  of  their  new  relations,  that  Leonard 
and  his  puppy  had  slipped  away  unobserved, 
when  Lady  Jane,  who  was  near  the  window, 
called  to  her  sister-in-law:  —  " Adelaide,  tell  me, 
my  dear,  is  this  Colonel  Jones  ? "     She  spoke 


BLOOD    IS    THICKER    THAN    WATER.  57 

with  some  trepidation.  It  is  so  easy  for  those 
unacquainted  with  uniforms  to  make  strange 
blunders.  Moreover,  the  Barrack  Master, 
though  soldierly  looking,  was  so,  despite  a  very 
unsoldierly  defect.  He  was  exceedingly  stout, 
and  as  he  approached  the  miniature  garden 
gate,  Lady  Jane  found  herself  gazing  with  some 
anxiety  to  see  if  he  could  possibly  get  through. 

But  O'Reilly  did  not  make  an  empty  boast 
when  he  said  that  a  soldier's  eye  was  true. 
The  Colonel  came  quite  neatly  through  the  toy 
entrance,  knocked  nothing  down  in  the  porch, 
bent  and  bared  his  head  with  one  gesture  as  he 
passed  under  the  drawing-room  doorway,  and 
bowing  again  to  Lady  Jane,  moved  straight  to 
the  side  of  his  wife. 

Something  in  the  action  —  a  mixture  of 
dignity  and  devotion,  with  just  a  touch  of 
defiance  —  went  to  Lady  Jane's  heart.  She 
went  up  to  him  and  held  out  both  her  hands :  — 
"  Please  shake  hands  with  me,  Colonel  Jones. 
I  am  so  very  happy  to  have  found  a  sister!" 


58       THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

In  a  moment  more  she  turned  round,  saying: 
—  "I  must  show  you  your  nephew.  Leonard  !  " 
But  Leonard  was  not  there. 

"  I  fancy  I  have  seen  him  already,"  said  the 
Colonel.  "  If  he  is  a  very  beautiful  boy,  very 
beautifully  dressed  in  velvet,  he's  with  O'Reilly, 
watching  the  funeral." 

Lady  Jane  looked  horrified,  and  Mrs.  Jones 
looked  much  relieved. 

"He's  quite  safe  if  he's  with  O'Reilly.  But 
give  me  my  sunshade,  Henry,  please  ;  I  dare  say 
Lady  Jane  would  like  to  see  the  funeral  too." 

It  is  an  Asholt  amenity  to  take  care  that  you 
miss  no  opportunity  of  seeing  a  funeral.  It 
would  not  have  occurred  to  Lady  Jane  to  wish 
to  go,  but  as  her  only  child  had  gone  she  went 
willingly  to  look  for  him.  As  they  turned  the 
corner  of  the  hut  they  came  straight  upon  it, 
and  at  that  moment  the  "  Dead  March  "  broke 
forth  afresh. 

The  drum  beat  out  those  familiar  notes  which 
strike  upon  the  heart  rather  than  the  ear,  the 


TOLL    FOR   THE    BRAVE!  59 

brass  screamed,  the  ground  trembled  to  the  tramp 
of  feet  and  the  lumbering  of  the  gun-carriage, 
and  Lady  Jane's  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears 
at  the  sight  of  the  dead  man's  accoutrements 
lying  on  the  Union  Jack  that  serves  a  soldier 
for  a  pall.     As  she  dried  them  she  saw  Leonard. 

Drawn  up  in  accurate  line  with  the  edge  of 
the  road,  O'Reilly  was  standing  to  salute ;  and 
as  near  to  the  Irish  private  as  he  could  squeeze 
himself  stood  the  boy,  his  whole  body  stretched 
to  the  closest  possible  imitation  of  his  new  and 
deeply-revered  friend,  his  left  arm  glued  to  his 
side,  and  the  back  of  his  little  right  hand  laid 
against  his  brow,  gazing  at  the  pathetic  pageant 
as  it  passed  him  with  devouring  eyes.  And 
behind  them  stood  Blind  Baby,  beating  upon 
his  basket. 

For  the  basket  had  been  recovered,  and  Blind 
Baby's  equanimity  also ;  and  he  wandered  up 
and  down  the  parade  again  in  the  sun,  long 
after  the  soldier's  funeral  had  wailed  its  way  to 
the  graveyard,  over  the  heather-covered  hill. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  My  mind  is  in  the  anomalous  condition  of  hating 
war,  and  loving  its  discipline,  which  has  been  an  incal- 
culable contribution  to  the  sentiment  of  duty  .  .  .  the 
devotion  of  the  common  soldier  to  his  leader  (the  sign 
for  him  of  hard  duty),  is  the  type  of  all  higher  devotedness, 
and  is  full  of  promise  to  other  and  better  generations." 

Geoi'ge  Eliot. 

"Your  sister  is  as  nice  as  nice  can  be, 
Rupert ;  and  I  like  the  Barrack  Master  very 
much,  too.  He  is  stout !  But  he  is  very  active 
and  upright,  and  his  manners  to  his  wife  are 
wonderfully  pretty.  Do  you  know,  there  is 
something  to  me  most  touching  in  the  way 
these  two  have  knocked  about  the  world  to- 
gether, and  seem  so  happy  with  so  little.  Cot- 
tagers could  hardly  live  more  simply,  and  yet 
their   ideas,   or  at  any  rate  their  experiences, 

seem  so  much  larger  than  one's  own." 
(60) 


BIRTH  S    GUDE,    BUT    BREEDING  S    BETTER.       01 

"My  dear  Jane!  if  you've  taken  them  up 
from  the  romantic  point  of  view  all  is,  indeed, 
accomplished.  I  know  the  wealth  of  your 
imagination,  and  the  riches  of  its  charity.  If, 
in  such  a  mood,  you  will  admit  that  Jones  is 
stout,  he  must  be  fat  indeed  !  Never  again 
upbraid  me  with  the  price  that  I  paid  for  that 
Chippendale  arm-chair.  It  will  hold  the  Bar- 
rack Master." 

"  Rupert !  —  I  cannot  help  saying  it  —  it 
ought  to  have  held  him  long  ago.  It  makes 
me  miserable  to  think  that  they  have  never 
been  under  our  roof." 

"Jane!  Be  miserable  if  you  must;  but,  at 
least,  be  accurate.  The  Barrack  Master  was 
in  India  when  I  bought  that  paragon  of  all 
Chips,  and  he  has  only  come  home  this  year. 
Nay,  my  dear !  Don't  be  vexed !  I  give  you 
my  word,  I'm  a  good  deal  more  ashamed  than 
I  like  to  own  to  think  how  Adelaide  has  been 
treated  by  the  family — with  me  as  its  head. 
Did   you  make  my  apologies    to-day,   and   tell 


62  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

her  that  I  shall  ride  out  to-morrow  and  pay  my 
respects  to  her  and  Jones  ? " 

"Of  course.  I  told  her  you  were  obliged 
to  go  to  town,  and  I  would  not  delay  to  call 
and  ask  if  I  could  be  of  use  to  them.  I  begged 
them  to  come  here  till  their  quarters  are  quite 
finished ;  but  they  won't.  They  say  they  are 
settled.  I  could  not  say  much,  because  we 
ought  to  have  asked  them  sooner.  He  is 
rather  on  his  dignity  with  us,  I  think,  and  no 
wonder." 

"  He's  disgustingly  on  his  dignity !  They 
both  are.  Because  the  family  resented  the 
match  at  first,  they  have  refused  every  kind  of 
help  that  one  would  have  been  glad  to  give  him 
as  Adelaide's  husband,  if  only  to  secure  their 
being  in  a  decent  position.  Neither  interest 
nor  money  would  he  accept,  and  Adelaide 
has  followed  his  lead.  She  has  very  little  of 
her  own,  unfortunately ;  and  she  knows  how 
my  father  left  things  as  well  as  I  do,  and  never 
would  accept  a  farthing  more  than   her   bare 


ON    HIS    DIGNITY.  6$ 

rights.  I  tried  some  dodges,  through  Quills ; 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  The  vexation  is  that  he 
has  taken  this  post  of  Barrack  Master  as  a  sort 
of  pension,  which  need  never  have  been.  I 
suppose  they  have  to  make  that  son  an  allow- 
ance. It's  not  likely  he  lives  on  his  pay.  I 
can't  conceive  how  they  scrub  along." 

And  as  the  Master  of  the  House  threw  him- 
self into  the  paragon  of  all  Chips,  he  ran  his 
fingers  through  hair,  the  length  and  disorder 
of  which  would  have  made  the  Barrack  Master 
feel  positively  ill,  with  a  gesture  of  truly  dra- 
matic despair. 

"Your  sister  has  made  her  room  look  wonder- 
fully pretty.  One  would  never  imagine  those 
huts  could  look  as  nice  as  they  do  inside.  But 
it's  like  playing  with  a  doll's  house.  One  feels 
inclined  to  examine  everything,  and  to  be  quite 
pleased  that  the  windows  have  glass  in  them 
and  will  really  open  and  shut." 

The  Master  of  the  House  raised  his  eyebrows 
funnily. 


64  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"  You  did  take  rose-colored  spectacles  with 
you  to  the  Camp  !  " 

Lady  Jane  laughed. 

u  I  did  not  see  the  Camp  itself  through  them. 
What  an  incomparably  dreary  place  it  is !  It 
makes  me  think  of  little  woodcuts  in  missionary 
reports  — '  Sketch  of  a  Native  Settlement '  — 
rows  of  little  black  huts  that  look,  at  a  distance, 
as  if  one  must  creep  into  them  on  all-fours; 
nobody  about,  and  an  iron  church  on  the  hill." 

"  Most  accurately  described !  And  you  won- 
der that  I  regret  that  a  native  settlement  should 
have  been  removed  from  the  enchanting  dis- 
tance of  missionary  reports  to  become  my  per- 
manent neighbor  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  the  effect  it  produces 
on  me  is  to  make  me  feel  quite  ashamed  of 
the  peace  and  pleasure  of  this  dear  old  place, 
the  shade  and  greenery  outside,  the  space  above 
my  head,  and  the  lovely  things  before  my  eyes 
inside  (for  you  know,  Rupert,  how  I  appreciate 
your  decorative  tastes,  though   I  have  so  few 


NON    EADEM    MIRAMUR.  65 

myself.  I  only  scolded  about  the  Chip  because 
I  think  you  might  have  got  him  for  less)  — 
when  so  many  men  bred  to  similar  comforts, 
and  who  have  served  their  country  so  well,  with 
wives  I  dare  say  quite  as  delicate  as  I  am,  have 
to  be  cooped  up  in  those  ugly  little  kennels  in 
that  dreary  place  —  " 

"What  an  uncomfortable  thing  a  Scotch 
conscience  is !  "  interrupted  the  Master  of  the 
House.  "  By-the-by,  those  religious  instincts, 
which  are  also  characteristic  of  your  race,  must 
have  found  one  redeeming  feature  in  the  Camp, 
the  'iron  church  on  the  hill';  especially  as  I 
imagine  that  it  is  puritanically  ugly  !  " 

"There  was  a  funeral  going  into  it  as  we 
drove  into  Camp,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  the 
horses  were  very  much  frightened." 

"Richards  fidgets  those  horses;  they're  quiet 
enough  with  me." 

"  They  did  not  like  the  military  band." 

"They  must  get  used  to  the  band  and  to 
other  military  nuisances.     It  is  written  in  the 


66  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

stars,  as  I  too  clearly  foresee,  *that  we  shall  be 
driving  in  and  out  of  that  Camp  three  days 
a-week.  I  can't  go  to  my  club  without  meeting 
men  I  was  at  school  with  who  are  stationed  at 
Asholt,  and  expect  me  to  look  them  up.  As 
to  the  women,  I  met  a  man  yesterday  who  is 
living  in  a  hut,  and  expects  a  Dowager  Coun- 
tess and  her  two  daughters  for  the  ball.  He 
has  given  up  his  dressing-room  to  the  Dowager, 
and  put  two  barrack-beds  into  the  coal-hole 
for  the  young  ladies,  he  says.     It's  an  insanity ! " 

"Adelaide  told  me  about  the  ball.  The 
Camp  seems  very  gay  just  now.  They  have 
had  theatricals ;  and  there  is  to  be  a  grand 
Field  Day  this  week." 

"So  our  visitors  have  already  informed  me. 
They  expect  to  go.  Louisa  Mainwaring  is  look- 
ing handsomer  than  ever,  and  I  have  always 
regarded  her  as  a  girl  with  a  mind.  I  took  her 
to  see  the  peep  I  have  cut  opposite  to  the 
island,  and  I  could  not  imagine  why  those  fine 
eyes  of   hers   looked   so  blank.     Presently  she 


FIELD    DAYS.  6j 

said,  'I  suppose  you  can  see  the  Camp  from 
the  little  pine-wood  ? '  And  to  the  little  pine- 
wood  we  had  to  go.  Both  the  girls  have  got 
stiff  necks  with  craning  out  of  the  carriage 
window  to  catch  sight  of  the  white  tents  among 
the  heather  as  they  came  along  in  the  train." 

"  I  suppose  we  must  take  them  to  the  Field 
Day ;  but  I  am  very  nervous  about  those  horses, 
Rupert." 

"The  horses  will  be  taken  out  before  any  firing 
begins.  As  to  bands,  the  poor  creatures  must 
learn,  like  their  master,  to  endure  the  brazen 
liveliness  of  military  music.  It's  no  fault  of 
mine  that  our  nerves  are  scarified  by  any 
sounds  less  soothing  than  the  crooning  of  the 
wood-pigeons  among  the  pines  !  " 

No  one  looked  forward  to  the  big  Field  Day 
with  keener  interest  than  Leonard  ;  and  only  a 
few  privileged  persons  knew  more  about  the 
arrangements  for  the  day  than  he  had  contrived 
to  learn. 

O'Reilly  was  sent  over  with  a  note  from  Mrs. 


68  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

Jones  to  decline  the  offer  of  a  seat  in  Lady 
Jane's  carriage  for  the  occasion.  Leonard 
waylaid  the  messenger  (whom  he  hardly  rec- 
ognized as  a  tidy  one!),  and  O'Reilly  gladly  im- 
parted all  that  he  knew  about  the  Field  Day  : 
and  this  was  a  good  deal.  He  had  it  from  a 
friend — a  corporal  in  the  Head  Quarters  Office. 

As  a  rule,  Leonard  only  enjoyed  a  limited 
popularity  with  his  mother's  visitors.  He  was 
very  pretty  and  very  amusing,  and  had  better 
qualities  even  than  these ;  but  he  was  restless 
and  troublesome.  On  this  occasion,  however, 
the  young  ladies  suffered  him  to  trample  their 
dresses  and  interrupt  their  conversation  without 
remonstrance.  He  knew  more  about  the  Field 
Day  than  any  one  in  the  house,  and,  standing 
among  their  pretty  furbelows  and  fancywork  in 
stiff  military  attitudes,  he  imparted  his  news 
with  an  unsuccessful  imitation  of  an  Irish  ac- 
cent. 

"  O'Reilly  says  the  March  Past'll  be  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  Sandy  Slopes." 


OLD    SOLDIERS.  69 

"  Louisa,  is  that  Major  O'Reilly  of  the 
Rifles  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  Is  your  friend  O'Reilly 
in  the  Rifles,  Leonard  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  know  he's  an  owld  soldier 
—  he  told  me  so." 

"  Old,  Leonard  ;  not  owld.  You  mustn't  talk 
like  that." 

"I  shall  if  I  like.     He  does,  and  I  mean  to." 

"  I  dare  say  he  did,  Louisa.  He's  always 
joking." 

"No  he  isn't.  He  didn't  joke  when  the 
funeral  went  past.  He  looked  quite  grave,  as 
if  he  was  saying  his  prayers,  and  stood  so" 

"  How  touching  !  " 

"  How  like  him  !  " 

"  How  graceful  and  tender  hearted  Irishmen 
are!" 

"  I  stood  so,  too.  I  mean  to  do  as  like  him 
as  ever  I  can.  I  do  love  him  so  very  very 
much!" 

"  Dear  boy!" 


yO  THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

"  You  good,  affectionate  little  soul !  " 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  Leonard  dear." 

"No,  thank  you.  I'm  too  old  for  kissing. 
He's  going  to  march  past,  and  he's  going  tc 
look  out  for  me  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  and 
I'm  going  to  look  out  for  him." 

"  Do,  Leonard ;  and  mind  you  tell  us  when 
you  see  him  coming." 

"  I  can't  promise.  I  might  forget.  But  per- 
haps you  can  know  him  by  the  good-conduct 
stripe  on  his  arm.  He  used  to  have  two ; 
but  he  lost  one  all  along  of  St.  Patrick's 
Day." 

"  That  cant  be  your  partner,  Louisa  !  " 

"Officers  never  have  good-conduct  stripes." 

"  Leonard,  you  ought  not  to  talk  to  common 
soldiers.  You've  got  a  regular  Irish  brogue,  and 
you're  learning  all  sorts  of  ugly  words.  You'll 
grow  up  quite  a  vulgar  little  boy,  if  you  don't 
take  care." 

"I  don't  want  to  take  care.  I  like  being 
Irish,  and  I  shall  be  a  vulgar  little  boy  too,  if 


"I  really  cannot  go  if  my  Sweep  has  to  be  left  behind." 


THE    BLACK    PUPPY.  >]\ 

I  choose.  But  when  I  do  grow  up,  I  am  going 
to  grow  into  an  owld,  owld,  Owld  Soldier  !  " 

Leonard  made  this  statement  of  his  inten- 
tions in  his  clearest  manner.  After  which, 
having  learned  that  the  favor  of  the  fair  is 
fickleness,  he  left  the  ladies,  and  went  to  look 
for  his  Black  Puppy. 

The  Master  of  the  House,  in  arranging  for 
his  visitors  to  go  to  the  Field  Day,  had  said 
that  Leonard  was  not  to  be  of  the  party.  He 
had  no  wish  to  encourage  the  child's  fancy  for 
soldiers  :  and  as  Leonard  was  invariably  rest- 
less out  driving,  and  had  a  trick  of  kicking 
people's  shins  in  his  changes  of  mood  and  posi- 
tion, he  was  a  most  uncomfortable  element  in 
a  carriage  full  of  ladies.  But  it  is  needless  to 
say  that  he  stoutly  resisted  his  father's  decree  ; 
and  the  child's  disappointment  was  so  bitter, 
and  he  howled  and  wept  himself  into  such  a 
deplorable  condition  that  the  young  ladies  sac- 
rificed their  own  comfort  and  the  crispness  of 
their  new  dresses  to  his  grief,  and  petitioned 


72  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT   LIFE. 

the  Master  of  the  House  that  he  might  be 
allowed  to  go. 

The  Master  of  the  House  gave  in.  He  was 
accustomed  to  yield  where  Leonard  was  con- 
cerned. But  the  concession  proved  only  a 
prelude  to  another  struggle.  Leonard  wanted 
the  Black  Puppy^to  go  too. 

On  this  point  the  young  ladies  presented  no 
petition.  Leonard's  boots  they  had  resolved  to 
endure,  but  not  the  dog's  paws.  Lady  Jane, 
too,  protested  against  the  puppy,  and  the  mat- 
ter seemed  settled;  but  at  the  last  moment, 
when  all  but  Leonard  were  in  the  carriage,  and 
the  horses  chafing  to  be  off,  the  child  made  his 
appearance,  and  stood  on  the  entrance-steps 
with  his  puppy  in  his  arms,  and  announced,  in 
dignified  sorrow,  "  I  really  cannot  go  if  my 
Sweep  has  to  be  left  behind." 

With  one  consent  the  grown-up  people  turned 
to  look  at  him. 

Even  the  intoxicating  delight  that  color  gives 
can   hardly  exceed   the   satisfying   pleasure  in 


(73) 


74       THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

which  beautiful  proportions  steep  the  sense  of 
sight ;  and  one  is  often  at  fault  to  find  the  law 
that  has  been  so  exquisitely  fulfilled,  when  the 
eye  has  no  doubt  of  its  own  satisfaction. 

The  shallow  stone  steps,  on  the  top  of  which 
Leonard  stood,  and  the  old  doorway  that  framed 
him,  had  this  mysterious  grace,  and,  truth  to 
say,  the  boy's  beauty  was  a  jewel  not  unworthy 
of  its  setting. 

A  holiday  dress  of  crimson  velvet,  with  collar 
and  ruffles  of  old  lace,  became  him  very  quaintly ; 
and  as  he  laid  a  cheek  like  a  rose-leaf  against 
the  sooty  head  of  his  pet,  and  they  both  gazed 
piteously  at  the  carriage,  even  Lady  Jane's  con- 
science was  stifled  by  motherly  pride.  He  was 
her  only  child,  but  as  he  had  said  of  the  Or- 
derly, "a  very  splendid  sort  of  one." 

The  Master  of  the  House  stamped  his  foot 
with  an  impatience  that  was  partly  real  and 
partly, .  perhaps,  affected. 

"  Well,  get  in  somehow,  if  you  mean  to.  The 
horses  can't  wait  all  day  for  you." 


LOVE    ME,    LOVE    MY    DOG.  75 

No  ruby-throated  humming  bird  could  have 
darted  more  swiftly  from  one  point  to  another 
than  Leonard  from  the  old  gray  steps  into  the 
carriage.  Little  boys  can  be  very  careful  when 
they  choose,  and  he  trode  on  no  toes  and  crum- 
pled no  finery  in  his  flitting. 

To  those  who  know  dogs,  it  is  needless  to  say 
that  the  puppy  showed  an  even  superior  discre- 
tion. It  bore  throttling  without  a  struggle. 
Instinctively  conscious  of  the  alternative  of 
being  shut  up  in  a  stable  for  the  day,  and  left 
there  to  bark  its  heart  out,  it  shrank  patiently 
into  Leonard's  grasp,  and  betrayed  no  sign  of 
life  except  in  the  strained  and  pleading  anxiety 
which  a  puppy's  eyes  so  often  wear. 

"  Your  dog  is  a  very  good  dog,  Leonard,  I 
must  say,"  said  Louisa  Mainwaring  ;  "  but  he's 
very  ugly.     I  never  saw  such  legs  !  " 

Leonard  tucked  the  lank  black  legs  under  his 
velvet  and  ruffles.  "  Oh,  he's  all  right,"  he  said. 
"  He'll  be  very  handsome  soon.  It's  his  ugly 
mouth." 


y6  THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

"I  wonder  you  didn't  insist  on  our  bringing 
Uncle  Rupert  and  his  dog  to  complete  the 
party,"  said  the  Master  of  the  House. 

The  notion  tickled  Leonard,  and  he  laughed 
so  heartily  that  the  puppy's  legs  got  loose,  and 
required  to  be  tucked  in  afresh.  Then  both 
remained  quiet  for  several  seconds,  during 
which  the  puppy  looked  as  anxious  as  ever ; 
but  Leonard's  face  wore  a  smile  of  dreamy 
content  that  doubled  its  loveliness. 

But  as  the  carriage  passed  the  windows  of 
the  library  a  sudden  thought  struck  him,  and 
dispersed  his  repose. 

Gripping  his  puppy  firmly  under  his  arm, 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  —  regardless  of  other 
people's — and  waving  his  cap  and  feather 
above  his  head  he  cried  aloud,  "  Good-bye, 
Uncle  Rupert !  Can  you  hear  me  ?  Uncle 
Rupert,  I  say  !     I  am  —  Icetus  —  sorte  —  mea  !  " 

t(c  t(c  t|c  "3(v  t(c 

All  the  Camp  was  astir. 

Men  and  bugles  awoke  with  the  dawn  and 


FAIR    LAUGHS    THE    MORN.  >tf 

the  birds,  and  now  the  women  and  children  of 
all  ranks  were  on  the  alert.  (Nowhere  does 
so  large  and  enthusiastic  a  crowd  collect  "to 
see  the  pretty  soldiers  go  by,"  as  in  those 
places  where  pretty  soldiers  live.) 

Soon  after  gun-fire  O'Reilly  made  his  way 
from  his  own  quarters  to  those  of  the  Barrack 
Master,  opened  the  back  door  by  some  process 
best  known  to  himself,  and  had  been  busy  for 
half  an  hour  in  the  drawing-room  before  his 
proceedings  woke  the  Colonel.  They  had  been 
as  noiseless  as  possible ;  but  the  Colonel's 
dressing-room  opened  into  the  drawing-room, 
his  bedroom  opened  into  that,  and  all  the 
doors  and  windows  were  opened  to  court  the 
air. 

"  Who's  there  ? "  said  the  Colonel  from  his 
pillow. 

"Tis  O'Reilly,  Sir.  I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir; 
but  I  heard  that  the  Mistress  was  not  well. 
She'll  be  apt  to  want  the  reclining-chair,  Sir; 
and   'twas  damaged  in  the  unpacking.      I   got 


y8  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

the  screws  last  night,  but  I  was  busy  soldier- 
ing1 till  too  late;  so  I  come  in  this  morning, 
for  Smith's  no  good  at  a  job  of  the  kind  at  all. 
He's  a  butcher  to  his  trade." 

"  Mrs.  Jones  is  much  obliged  to  you  for 
thinking  of  it,  O'Reilly." 

"  'Tis  an  honor  to  oblige  her,  Sir.  I  done  it 
sound  and  secure.  'Tis  as  safe  as  a  rock ;  but 
I'd  like  to  nail  a  bit  of  canvas  on  from  the 
porch  to  the  other  side  of  the  hut,  for  shelter, 
in  case  she'd  be  sitting  out  to  taste  the  air  and 
see  the  troops  go  by.  'Twill  not  take  me  five 
minutes,  if  the  hammering  wouldn't  be  too 
much  for  the  Mistress.  'Tis  a  hot  day,  Sir, 
for  certain,  till  the  guns  bring  the  rain 
down." 

"  Put  it  up,  if  you've  time." 

"  I  will,  Sir.  I  left  your  sword  and  gloves 
on  the  kitchen-table,  Sir  ;  and  I  told  Smith  to 
water  the  rose  before  the  sun's  on  to  it." 

1  "  Soldiering "  —  a  barrack    term   for  the   furbishing  up  of 
accoutrements,  &c. 


AND  SOFT  THE  ZEPHYR  BLOWS.       79 

With  which  O'Reilly  adjusted  the  cushions 
of  the  invalid-chair,  and  having  nailed  up  the 
bit  of  canvas  outside,  so  as  to  form  an  im- 
promptu veranda,  he  ran  back  to  his  quarters 
to  put  himself  into  marching  order  for  the 
Field  Day. 

The  Field  Day  broke  into  smiles  of  sunshine 
too  early  to  be  lasting.  By  breakfast-time  the 
rain  came  down  without  waiting  for  the  guns ; 
but  those  most  concerned  took  the  changes  of 
weather  cheerfully,  as  soldiers  should.  Rain 
damages  uniforms,  but  it  lays  dust ;  and  the 
dust  of  the  Sandy  Slopes  was  dust  indeed ! 

After  a  pelting  shower  the  sun  broke  forth 
again,  and  from  that  time  onwards  the  weather 
was  "  Queen's  Weather,"  and  Asholt  was  at  its 
best.  The  sandy  Camp  lay  girdled  by  a  zone 
of  the  verdure  of  early  summer,  which  passed 
by  miles  of  distance,  through  exquisite  grada- 
tions of  many  blues,  to  meet  the  soft  threaten- 
ings  of  the  changeable  sky.  Those  lowering 
and  yet  tender  rain-clouds  which  hover  over  the 


80  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

British  Isles,  guardian  spirits  of  that  scantly 
recognized  blessing  —  a  temperate  climate ; 
Naiads  of  the  waters  over  the  earth,  whose 
caprices  betwixt  storm  and  sunshine  fling  such 
beauty  upon  a  landscape  as  has  no  parallel 
except  in  the  common  simile  of  a  fair  face 
quivering  between  tears  and  smiles. 

Smiles  were  in  the  ascendant  as  the  regi- 
ments began  to  leave  their  parade-grounds,  and 
the  surface  of  the  Camp  (usually  quiet,  even 
to  dulness)  sparkled  with  movement.  Along 
every  principal  road  the  color  and  glitter  of 
marching  troops  rippled  like  streams,  and  as 
the  band  of  one  regiment  died  away  another 
broke  upon  the  excited  ear. 

At  the  outlets  of  the  Camp  eager  crowds 
waited  patiently  in  the  dusty  hedges  to  greet 
favorite  regiments,  or  watch  for  personal  friends 
amongst  the  troops ;  and  on  the  ways  to  the 
Sandy  Slopes  every  kind  of  vehicle,  from  a  drag 
to  a  donkey-cart,  and  every  variety  of  pedes- 
trian, from  1m  energetic  tourist  carrying  a  field- 


MARCHING   TROOPS.  8l 

glass  to  a  more  admirably  energetic  mother 
carrying  a  baby,  disputed  the  highway  with 
cavalry  in  brazen  breastplates,  and  horse-artil- 
lery whose  gallant  show  was  drowned  in  its 
own  dust. 

Lady  Jane's  visitors  had  expressed  them- 
selves as  anxious  not  to  miss  anything,  and 
troops  were  still  pouring  out  of  the  Camp  when 
the  Master  of  the  House  brought  his  skittish 
horses  to  where  a  "block"  had  just  occurred 
at  the  turn  to  the  Sandy  Slopes. 

What  the  shins  and  toes  of  the  visitors 
endured  whilst  that  knot  of  troops  of  all  arms 
disentangled  itself  and  streamed  away  in  gay 
and  glittering  lines,  could  only  have  been  con- 
cealed by  the  supreme  powers  of  endurance 
latent  in  the  weaker  sex ;  for  with  the  sight  of 
every  fresh  regiment  Leonard  changed  his  plans 
for  his  own  future  .career,  and  with  every  change 
he  forgot  a  fresh  promise  to  keep  quiet,  and 
took  by  storm  that  corner  of  the  carriage  which 
for  the  moment  offered  the  best  point  of  view. 


82  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

Suddenly,  through  the  noise  and  dust,  and 
above  the  dying  away  of  conflicting  bands  into 
the  distance,  there  came  another  sound  — 
a  sound  unlike  any  other  —  the  skirling  of  the 
pipes ;  and  Lady  Jane  sprang  up  and  put  her 
arms  about  her  son,  and  bade  him  watch  for  the 
Highlanders,  and  if  Cousin  Alan  looked  up  as 
he  went  past  to  cry  "  Hurrah  for  Bonnie 
Scotland !  " 

For  this  sound  and  this  sight  —  the  bagpipes 
and  the  Highlanders  —  a  sandy-faced  Scotch 
lad  on  the  tramp  to  Southampton  had  waited 
for  an  hour  past,  frowning  and  freckling  his 
face  in  the  sun,  and  exasperating  a  naturally 
dour  temper  by  reflecting  on  the  probable  pride 
and  heartlessness  of  folks  who  wore  such  soft 
complexions  and  pretty  clothes  as  the  ladies 
and  the  little  boy  in  the  carriage  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road. 

But  when  the  skirling  of  the  pipes  cleft  the 
air  his  cold  eyes  softened  as  he  caught  sight  of 
Leonard's  face,  and  the  echo  that  he  made  to 


The  Highlanders. 
(83) 


84  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

Leonard's  cheer  was  caught  up  by  the  good- 
humored  crowd,  who  gave  the  Scotch  regiment 
a  willing  ovation  as  it  swung  proudly  by.  After 
which  the  carriage  moved  on,  and  for  a  time 
Leonard  sat  very  still.  He  was  thinking  of 
Cousin  Alan  and  his  comrades ;  of  the  tossing 
plumes  that  shade  their  fierce  eyes ;  of  the 
swing  of  kilt  and  sporran  with  their  unfettered 
limbs  ;  of  the  rhythmic  tread  of  their  white  feet 
and  the  fluttering  ribbons  on  the  bagpipes ;  and 
of  Alan's  handsome  face  looking  out  of  his 
most  becoming  bravery. 

The  result  of  his  meditations  Leonard 
announced  with  his  usual  lucidity : 

"  I  am  Scotch,  not  Irish,  though  O'Reilly  is 
the  nicest  man  I  ever  knew.  But  I  must  tell 
him  that  I  really  cannot  grow  up  into  an  Owld 
Soldier,  because  I  mean  to  be  a  young  Highland 
officer,  and  look  at  ladies  with  my  eyes  like 
this — and  carry  my  sword  so!" 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  Oh  that  a  man   might    know   the    end   of   this   day's 
business  ere  it  comes !  "  —  Julius  Ccssar. 

Years  of  living  amongst  soldiers  had  in- 
creased, rather  than  diminished,  Mrs.  Jones's 
relish  for  the  sights  and  sounds  of  military 
life. 

The  charm  of  novelty  is  proverbially  great, 
but  it  is  not  so  powerful  as  that  peculiar  spell 
which  drew  the  retired  tallow-chandler  back  to 
"  shop  "  on  melting-days,  and  which  guided  the 
choice  of  the  sexton  of  a  cemetery  who  only 
took  one  holiday  trip  in  the  course  of  seven 
years,  and  then  he  went  to  a  cemetery  at  some 
distance  to  see  how  they  managed  matters 
there.  And,  indeed,  poor  humanity  may  be 
very  thankful  for  the  infatuation,  since  it  goes 
far  to  make  life  pleasant  in  the  living  to  plain 
(85) 


86  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

folk  who  do  not  make  a  point  of  being  dis- 
contented. 

In  obedience  to  this  law  of  nature,  the 
Barrack  Master's  wife  did  exactly  what  O'Reilly 
had  expected  her  to  do.  As  she  could  not 
drive  to  the  Field  Day,  she  strolled  out  to  see 
the  troops  go  by.  Then  the  vigor  derived  from 
breakfast  and  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air 
began  to  fail,  the  day  grew  hotter,  the  Camp 
looked  dreary  and  deserted,  and,  either  from 
physical  weakness  or  from  some  untold  cause, 
a  nameless  anxiety,  a  sense  of  trouble  in  the  air, 
began  to  oppress  her. 

Wandering  out  again  to  try  and  shake  it  off, 
it  was  almost  a  relief,  like  the  solving  of  a 
riddle,  to  find  Blind  Baby  sitting  upon  his  Big 
Drum,  too  low-spirited  to  play  the  Dead  March, 
and  crying  because  all  the  bands  had  "gone 
right  away."  Mrs.  Jones  made  friends  with 
him,  and  led  him  off  to  her  hut  for  consolation, 
and  he  was  soon  as  happy  as  ever,  standing  by 
the  piano  and  beating  upon  his  basket  in  time 


The  Sexton's  Holiday  Trip. 
(87) 


88  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

to  the  tunes  she  played  for  him.  But  the  day 
and  the  hut  grew  hotter,  and  her  back  ached, 
and  the  nameless  anxiety  re-asserted  itself,  and 
was  not  relieved  by  Blind  Baby's  preference  for 
the  Dead  March  over  every  other  tune  with 
which  she  tried  to  beguile  him. 

And  when  he  had  gone  back  to  his  own 
Parade,  with  a  large  piece  of  cake  and  many 
assurances  that  the  bands  would  undoubtedly 
return,  and  the  day  wore  on,  and  the  hut 
became  like  an  oven  (in  the  absence  of  any 
appliances  to  mitigate  the  heat),  the  Barrack 
Master's  wife  came  to  the  hasty  conclusion 
that  Asholt  was  hotter  than  India,  whatever 
thermometers  might  say ;  and,  too  weary  to 
seek  for  breezes  outside,  or  to  find  a  restful 
angle  of  the  reclining  chair  inside,  she  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap  and  abandoned  herself 
to  the  most  universal  remedy  for  most  ills  — 
patience.  And  patience  was  its  own  reward, 
for  she  fell  asleep. 

Her  last  thoughts  as  she  dozed  off  were  of  her 


there's  trouble  in  the  air.  89 

husband  and  her  son,  wishing  that  they  were  safe 
home  again,  that  she  might  assure  herself  that  it 
was  not  on  their  account  that  there  was  trouble 
in  the  air.  Then  she  dreamed  of  being  roused 
by  the  Colonel's  voice  saying,  "I  have  bad 
news  to  tell  you — "  and  was  really  awakened 
by  straining  in  her  dream  to  discover  what  hin- 
dered him  from  completing  his  sentence. 

She  had  slept  some  time — it  was  now  after- 
noon, and  the  air  was  full  of  sounds  of  the 
returning  bands.  She  went  out  into  the  road 
and  saw  the  Barrack  Master  (he  was  easy  to  dis- 
tinguish at  some  distance  !)  pause  on  his  home- 
ward way,  and  then  she  saw  her  son  running  to 
join  his  father,  with  his  sword  under  his  arm  ; 
and  they  came  on  together,  talking  as  they 
came. 

And  as  soon  as  they  got  within  earshot  she 
said,  "  Have  you  bad  news  to  tell  me  ?  " 

The  Colonel  ran  up  and  drew  her  hand 
within  his  arm. 

"  Come  indoors,  dear  Love." 


90  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"  You  are  both  well  ?  " 

"Both  of  us.     Brutally  so." 

"Quite  well,  dear  Mother." 

Her  son  was  taking  her  other  hand  into 
caressing  care ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
the  bad  news. 

"Please  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"There  has  been  an  accident  —  " 

"To  whom  ? " 

"To  your  brother's  child;  that  jolly  little 
chap  —  " 

"  Oh,  Henry  !  how  ?  " 

"  He  was  standing  up  in  the  carriage,  I 
believe,  with  a  dog  in  his  arms.  George  saw 
him  when  he  went  past  —  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wonder  he  didn't  fall  then.  I 
fancy  some  one  had  told  him  it  was  our  regi- 
ment. The  dog  was  struggling,  but  he  would 
take  off  his  hat  to  us  —  " 

The  young  soldier  choked,  and  added  with 
difficulty,  "  I  think  I  never  saw  so  lovely  a  face. 
Poor  little  cousin  !  " 


ROOSE    THE    FAIR   DAY    AT   E  EN.  91 

"  And  he  overbalanced  himself  ?  " 

"  Not  when  George  saw  him.  I  believe  it  was 
when  the  Horse  Artillery  were  going  by  at  the 
gallop.  They  say  he  got  so  much  excited,  and 
the  dog  barked,  and  they  both  fell.  Some  say 
there  were  people  moving  a  drag,  and  some 
that  he  fell  under  the  horse  of  a  patrol.  Any- 
how, I'm  afraid  he's  very  much  hurt.  They 
took  him  straight  home  in  an  ambulance-wagon 
to  save  time.  Erskine  went  with  him.  I  sent 
off  a  telegram  for  them  for  a  swell  surgeon 
from  town,  and  Lady  Jane  promised  a  line  if  I 
send  over  this  evening.  O'Reilly  must  go  after 
dinner  and  wait  for  the  news." 

O'Reilly,  sitting  stiffly  amid  the  coming  and 
going  of  the  servants  at  the  Hall,  was  too 
deeply  devoured  by  anxiety  to  trouble  himself 
as  to  whether  the  footman's  survey  of  his  uni- 
form bespoke  more  interest  or  contempt.  But 
when — just  after  gun-fire  had  sounded  from 
the  distant  Camp — Jemima  brought  him  the 
long-waited-for  note,  he  caught  the  girl's  hand, 


92  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

and  held  it  for  some  moments  before  he  was 
able  to  say,  "Just  tell  me,  miss;  is  it  good 
news  or  bad  that  I'll  be  carrying  back  in  this 
bit  of  paper?"  And  as  Jemima  only  answered 
by  sobs,  he  added,  almost  impatiently,  "  Will  he 
live,  dear?  Nod  your  head  if  ye  can  do  no 
more." 

Jemima  nodded,  and  the  soldier  dropped  her 
hand,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  gave  himself  one 
of  those  shakes  with  which  an  Irishman  so 
often  throws  off  care. 

"  Ah,  then,  dry  your  eyes,  darlin' ;  while 
there's  life  there's  hope." 

But  Jemima  sobbed  still. 

"The  doctor  —  from  London — says  he  may 
live  a  good  while,  but  —  but  —  he's  to  be  a 
cripple  all  his  days  !  " 

"  Now  wouldn't  I  rather  be  meeting  a  tiger 
this  evening  than  see  the  mistress's  face  when 
she  gets  that  news !  " 

And  O'Reilly  strode  back  to  Camp. 

Going  along  through  a  shady  part  of  the  road 


PORCELAIN    OR    BRICK YET    BOTH    CLAY.       93 

in  the  dusk,  seeing  nothing  but  the  red  glow 
of  the  pipe  with  which  he  was  consoling  himself, 
the  soldier  stumbled  against  a  lad  sleeping  on 
the  grass  by  the  roadside.  It  was  the  tramping 
Scotchman,  and  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet  the  two 
Kelts  broke  into  a  fiery  dialogue  that  seemed  as 
if  it  could  only  come  to  blows. 

It  did  not.  It  came  to  the  good-natured 
soldier's  filling  the  wayfarer's  pipe  for  him. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  ye  !  And  maybe  the 
next  time  a  decent  man  that's  hastening  home 
on  the  wings  of  misfortune  stumbles  against  ye, 
ye'll  not  be  so  apt  to  take  offence." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  man  ;  I  was  barely 
wakened,  and  I  took  ye  for  one  of  these  gay 
red-coats  blustering  hame  after  a  bloodless 
battle  on  the  Field  Day,  as  they  ca'  it." 

"Bad  luck  to  the  Field  Day!  A  darker 
never  dawned  ;  and  wouldn't  a  bloodier  battle 
have  spared  a  child  ? " 

"  Your  child  ?  What's  happened  to  the 
bairn?" 


94  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"  My  child  indeed  !  And  his  mother  a  lady 
of  title,  no  less." 

"What's  got  him?" 

"  Fell  out  of  the  carriage,  and  was  trampled 
into  a  cripple  for  all  the  days  of  his  life.  He 
that  had  set  as  fine  a  heart  as  ever  beat  on 
being  a  soldier ;  and  a  grand  one  he'd  have 
made.  '  Sure  'tis  a  nobleman  ye'll  be,'  says  I. 
'  Tis  an  owld  soldier  I  mean  to  be,  O'Reilly,' 
says  he.     And  —  " 

"  Fond  of  the  soldiers  —  his  mother  a  leddy  ? 
Man!  Had  he  a  braw  new  velvet  coat  and  the 
face  of  an  angel  on  him  ?  " 

"He  had  so." 

"And  I  that  thocht  they'd  all  this  warld 
could  offer  them! — A  cripple?     Ech  sirs!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

11 1  will  do  it  .  .  .  for  I  am  weak  by  nature,  and  very 
timorous,  unless  where  a  strong  sense  of  duty  holdeth  and 
supporteth  me.    There  God  acteth,  and  not  His  creature." 

Lady  Jane  Grey. 

Leonard  was  to  some  extent  a  spoiled  child. 
But  it  demands  a  great  deal  of  unselfish  fore- 
sight, and  of  self-discipline,  to  do  more  for  a 
beautiful  and  loving  pet  than  play  with  it. 

And  if  his  grace  and  beauty  and  high  spirits 
had  been  strong  temptations  to  give  him  every- 
thing he  desired,  and  his  own  way  above  all, 
how  much  greater  were  the  excuses  for  indulg- 
ing every  whim  when  the  radiant  loveliness  of 
health  had  faded  to  the  wan  wistfulness  of  pain, 
when  the  young  limbs  bounded  no  more,  and 
when  his  boyish  hopes  and  hereditary  ambitions 
(95) 


96  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

were  cut  off  by  the  shears  of  a  destiny  that 
seemed  drearier  than  death  ? 

As  soon  as  the  poor  child  was  able  to  be 
moved  his  parents  took  a  place  on  the  west 
coast  of  Scotland,  and  carried  him  thither. 

The  neighborhood  of  Asholt  had  become 
intolerable  by  them  for  some  time  to  come, 
and  a  soft  climate  and  sea-breezes  were  recom- 
mended for  his  general  health. 

Jemima's  dismissal  was  revoked.  Leonard 
flatly,  and  indeed  furiously,  refused  to  have 
any  other  nurse.  During  the  first  crisis  a 
skilled  hospital  nurse  was  engaged,  but  from 
the  time  that  he  fully  recovered  consciousness 
he  would  receive  help  from  no  hands  but  those 
of  Jemima  and  Lady  Jane. 

Far  older  and  wiser  patients  than  he  become 
ruthless  in  their  demands  upon  the  time  and 
strength  of  those  about  them ;  and  Leonard 
did  not  spare  his  willing  slaves  by  night  or 
by  day.  It  increased  their  difficulties  and  his 
sufferings  that  the   poor  child  was  absolutely 


THE    TYRANNY    OF    THE   WEAK.  97 

unaccustomed  to  prompt  obedience,  and  dis^ 
puted  the  doctor's  orders  as  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  dispute  all  others. 

Lady  Jane's  health  became  very  much 
broken,  but  Jemima  was  fortunately  possessed 
of  a  sturdy  body  and  an  inactive  mind,  and  with 
a  devotion  little  less  than  maternal  she  gave 
up  both  to  Leonard's  service. 

He  had  a  third  slave  of  his  bed-chamber  — 
a  black  one  —  the  Black  Puppy,  from  whom 
he  had  absolutely  refused  to  part,  and  whom 
he  insisted  upon  having  upon  his  bed,  to  the 
doctor's  disgust.  When  months  passed,  and 
the  Black  Puppy  became  a  Black  Dog,  large 
and  cumbersome,  another  effort  was  made  to 
induce  Leonard  to  part  with  him  at  night ; 
but  he  only  complained  bitterly. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  there  cannot  be  a  bed 
big  enough  for  me  and  my  dog.  I  am  an 
invalid,  and  I  ought  to  have  what  I  want." 

So  The  Sweep  remained  as  his  bedfellow. 

The  Sweep  also  played  the  part  of  the  last 


98  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

straw  in  the  drama  of  Jemima's  life ;  for  Leon- 
ard would  allow  no  one  but  his  own  dear  nurse 
to  wash  his  own  dear  dog  ;  and  odd  hours,  in 
which  Jemima  might  have  snatched  a  little  rest 
and  relaxation,  were  spent  by  her  in  getting  the 
big  dog's  still  lanky  legs  into  a  tub,  and  keep- 
ing him  there,  and  washing  him,  and  drying 
and  combing  him  into  fit  condition  to  spring 
back  on  to  Leonard's  coverlet  when  that  imperi- 
ous little  invalid  called  for  him. 

It  was  a  touching  manifestation  of  the  dog's 
intelligence  that  he  learned  with  the  utmost 
care  to  avoid  jostling  or  hurting  the  poor  suffer- 
ing little  body  of  his  master. 

Leonard's  fourth  slave  was  his  father. 

But  the  Master  of  the  House  had  no  faculty 
for  nursing,  and  was  by  no  means  possessed  of 
the  patience  needed  to  persuade  Leonard  for 
his  good.  So  he  could  only  be  with  the  child 
when  he  was  fit  to  be  read  or  played  to,  and 
later  on,  when  he  was  able  to  be  out  of  doors. 
And  at  times  he  went  away  out  of  sight  of  his 


"  Leonard  would  allow  no  one  but  his  own  dear  nurse  to 
wash  his  own  dear  dog.'" 

(99) 


IOO  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

son's  sufferings,  and  tried  to  stifle  the  remem- 
brance of  a  calamity  and  disappointment,  whose 
bitterness  his  own  heart  alone  fully  knew. 

After  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  years  Leonard 
suddenly  asked  to  be  taken  home.  He  was 
tired  of  the  shore,  and  wanted  to  see  if  The 
Sweep  remembered  the  park.  He  wanted  to 
see  if  Uncle  Rupert  would  look  surprised  to 
see  him  going  about  in  a  wheel-chair.  He 
wanted  to  go  to  the  Camp  again,  now  the  doc- 
tor said  he  might  have  drives,  and  see  if 
O'Reilly  was  alive  still,  and  his  uncle,  and  his 
aunt,  and  his  cousin.  He  wanted  father  to 
play  to  him  on  their  own  organ,  their  very  own 
organ,  and  —  no,  thank  you  !  —  he  did  not  want 
any  other  music  now. 

He  hated  this  nasty  place,  and  wanted  to  go 
home.  If  he  was  going  to  live  he  wanted  to 
live  there,  and  if  he  was  going  to  die  he  wanted 
to  die  there,  and  have  his  funeral  his  own  way, 
if  they  knew  a  General  and  could  borrow  a  gun- 
carriage  and  a  band. 


TO    EACH    HIS    SUFFERINGS.  IOI 

He  didn't  want  to  eat  or  drink,  or  to  go  to 
sleep,  or  to  take  his  medicine,  or  to  go  out  and 
send  The  Sweep  into  the  sea,  or  to  be  read  to 
or  played  to;  he  wanted  to  go  home  —  home 
—  home ! 

The  upshot  of  which  was,  that  before  his 
parents  had  time  to  put  into  words  the  idea 
that  the  agonizing  associations  of  Asholt  were 
still  quite  unendurable,  they  found  themselves 
congratulating  each  other  on  having  got  Leon- 
ard safely  home  before  he  had  cried  him- 
self into  convulsions  over  twenty-four  hours' 
delay. 

For  a  time,  being  at  home  seemed  to  revive 
him.  He  was  in  less  pain,  in  better  spirits, 
had  more  appetite,  and  was  out  a  great  deal 
with  his  dog  and  his  nurse.  But  he  fatigued 
himself,  which  made  him  fretful,  and  he  cer- 
tainly grew  more  imperious  every  day. 

His  whim  was  to  be  wheeled  into  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  place,  inside  and  out,  and  to 
show   them    to    The    Sweep.     And  who    could 


102  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

have  had  the  heart  to  refuse  him  anything  in 
the  face  of  that  dread  affliction  which  had  so 
changed  him  amid  the  unchanged  surroundings 
of  his  old  home  ? 

Jemima  led  the  life  of  a  prisoner  on  the  tread- 
mill. When  she  wasn't  pushing  him  about  she 
was  going  errands  for  him,  fetching  and  carry- 
ing.    She  was  "  never  off  her  feet." 

He  moved  about  a  little  now  on  crutches, 
though  he  had  not  strength  to  be  very  active 
with  them,  as  some  cripples  are.  But  they 
became  ready  instruments  of  his  impatience  to 
thump  the  floor  with  one  end,  and  not  infre- 
quently to  strike  those  who  offended  him  with 
the  other. 

His  face  was  little  less  beautiful  than  of  old, 
but  it  looked  wan  and  weird  ;  and  his  beauty 
was  often  marred  by  what  is  more  destructive 
of  beauty  even  than  sickness  —  the  pinched 
lines  of  peevishness  and  ill-temper.  He  suffered 
less,  but  he  looked  more  unhappy,  was  more 
difficult  to  please,  and  more  impatient  with  all 


PATIENCE    ITS    OWN    REWARD.  103 

efforts  to  please  him.  But  then,  though  noth- 
ing is  truer  than  that  patience  is  its  own  re- 
ward, it  has  to  be  learned  first.  And,  with 
children,  what  has  to  be  learned  must  be 
taught.  0 

To  this  point  Lady  Jane's  meditations 
brought  her  one  day  as  she  paced  up  and 
down  her  own  morning-room,  and  stood  before 
the  window  which  looked  down  where  the  elm- 
trees  made  long  shadows  on  the  grass ;  for 
the  sun  was  declining,  greatly  to  Jemima's 
relief,  who  had  been  toiling  in  Leonard's  ser- 
vice through  the  hottest  hours  of  a  summer 
day. 

Lady  Jane  had  a  tender  conscience,  and  just 
now  it  was  a  very  uneasy  one.  She  was  one  of 
those  somewhat  rare  souls  who  are  by  nature 
absolutely  true.  Not  so  much  with  elaborate 
avoidance  of  lying,  or  an  aggressive  candor,  as 
straight-minded,  single-eyed,  clear-headed,  and 
pure-hearted ;  a  soul  to  which  the  truth  and 
reality   of    things,    and    the   facing   of    things, 


104  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

came  as  naturally  as  the  sham  of  them  and 
the  blinking  of  them  comes  to  others. 

When  such  a  nature  has  strong  affections  it 
is  no  light  matter  if  love  and  duty  come  into 
conflict.  They  were  in  conflict  now,  and  the 
mother's  heart  was  pierced  with  a  two-edged 
sword.  For  if  she  truly  believed  what  she 
believed,  her  duty  towards  Leonard  was  not 
only  that  of  a  tender  mother  to  a  suffering 
child,  but  the  duty  of  one  soul  to  another  soul, 
whose  responsibilities  no  man  might  deliver 
him  from,  nor  make  agreement  unto  God  that 
he  should  be  quit  of  them. 

And  if  the  disabling  of  his  body  did  not 
stop  the  developing,  one  way  or  another,  of 
his  mind ;  if  to  learn  fortitude  and  patience 
under  his  pains  was  not  only  his  highest  duty 
but  his  best  chance  of  happiness ;  then,  if  she 
failed  to  teach  him  these,  of  what  profit  was  it 
that  she  would  willingly  have  endured  all  his 
sufferings  ten  times  over  that  life  might  be 
all  sunshine  for  him  ? 


LOVE    AND    DUTY.  105 

And  deep  down  in  her  truthful  soul  another 
thought  rankled.  No  one  but  herself  knew 
how  the  pride  of  her  heart  had  been  stirred 
by  Leonard's  love  for  soldiers,  his  brave  ambi- 
tions, the  high  spirit  and  heroic  instincts  which 
he  inherited  from  a  long  line  of  gallant  men 
and  noble  women.  Had  her  pride  been  a 
sham  ?  Did  she  only  care  for  the  courage 
of  the  battle-field?  Was^she  willing  that  her 
son  should  be  a  coward,  because  it  was  not  the 
trumpet's  sound  that  summoned  him  to  forti- 
tude ?  She  had  strung  her  heart  to  the  thought 
that,  like  many  a  mother  of  her  race,  she  might 
live  to  gird  on  his  sword  ;  should  she  fail  to 
help  him  to  carry  his  cross  ? 

At  this  point  a  cry  came  from  below  the 
window,  and  looking  out  she  saw  Leonard, 
beside  himself  with  passion,  raining  blows  like 
hail  with  his  crutch  upon  poor  Jemima  ;  The 
Sweep  watching  matters  nervously  from  under 
a  garden  seat. 

Leonard  had  been  irritable  all  day,  and  this 


106      THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

was  the  second  serious  outbreak.  The  first 
had  sent  the  Master  of  the  House  to  town  with 
a  deeply-knitted  brow. 

Vexed  at  being  thwarted  in  some  slight 
matter,  when  he  was  sitting  in  his  wheel-chair 
by  the  side  of  his  father  in  the  library,  he  had 
seized  a  sheaf  of  papers  tied  together  with 
amber-colored  ribbon,  and  had  torn  them  to 
shreds.  It  was  a  fair  copy  of  the  first  two  cantos 
of  The  Soul's  Satiety,  a  poem  on  which  the 
Master  of  the  House  had  been  engaged  for 
some  years.  He  had  not  touched  it  in  Scot- 
land, and  was  now  beginning  to  work  at  it 
again.  He  could  not  scold  his  cripple  child, 
but  he  had  gone  up  to  London  in  a  far  from 
comfortable  mood. 

•  And  now  Leonard  was  banging  poor  Jemima 
with  his  crutches !  Lady  Jane  felt  that  her 
conscience  had  not  roused  her  an  hour  too 
soon. 

The  Master  of  the  House  had  dined  in  town, 
and   Leonard  had   tea  with   his   mother  in  her 


HE    THAT   THOLES,    O  ERCOMES.  IO7 

very  own  room  ;  and  The  Sweep  had  tea  there 
too. 

And  when  the  old  elms  looked  black  against 
the  primrose-colored  sky,  and  it  had  been 
Leonard's  bed-time  for  half  an  hour  past,  the 
three  were  together  still. 


" 1  beg  your  pardon,  Jemima,  I  am  very 
sorry,  and  I'll  never  do  so  any  more.  I  didn't 
want  to  beg  your  pardon  before,  because  I  was 
naughty,  and  because  you  trod  on  my  Sweep's 
foot.  But  I  beg  your  pardon  now,  because  I 
am  good  —  at  least  I  am  better,  and  I  am  going 
to  try  to  be  good." 

Leonard's  voice  was  as  clear  as  ever,  and  his 
manner  as  direct  and  forcible.  Thus  he  con^ 
trived  to  say  so  much  before  Jemima  burst  in 
(she  was  putting  him  to  bed). 

"  My  lamb !  my  pretty !  You're  always 
good  —  " 

"  Don't  tell  stories,  Jemima  ;  and  please  don't 


108      THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

contradict  me,  for  it  makes  me  cross ;  and  if  I 
am  cross  I  can't  be  good ;  and  if  I  am  not  good 
all  to-morrow  I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to  go 
downstairs  after  dinner.  And  there's  a  V.C 
coming  to  dinner,  and  I  do  want  to  see  him 
more  than  I  want  anything  else  in  all  the 
world." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"What  is  there  in  the  world  to  distinguish  virtues 
from  dishonor,  or  that  can  make  anything  rewardable,  but 
the  labor  and  the  danger,  the  pain  and  the  difficulty  ?  "  — 
Jeremy  Taylor. 

The  V.C.  did  not  look  like  a  bloodthirsty 
warrior.  He  had  a  smooth,  oval,  olivart  face, 
and  dreamy  eyes.  He  was  not  very  big,  and 
he  was  absolutely  unpretending.  He  was  a 
young  man,  and  only  by  the  courtesy  of  his 
manners  escaped  the  imputation  of  being  a  shy 
young  man. 

Before  the  campaign  in  which  he  won  his 
cross  he  was  most  distinctively  known  in  soci- 
ety as  having  a  very  beautiful  voice  and  a  very 
charming  way  of  singing,  and  yet  as  giving  him- 
self no  airs  on  the  subject  of  an  accomplish- 
ment which  makes  some  men  almost  intolerable 

by  their  fellow-men. 

(109) 


IIO  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

He  was  a  favorite  with  ladies  on  several  ac- 
counts, large  and  small.  Among  the  latter  was 
his  fastidious  choice  in  the  words  of  the  songs  he 
sang,  and  sang  with  a  rare  fineness  of  enunciation. 

It  is  not  always  safe  to  believe  that  a  singer 
means  what  he  sings  ;  but  if  he  sing  very  noble 
words  with  justness  and  felicity,  the  ear  rarely 
refuses  to  flatter  itself  that  it  is  learning  some 
of  the  secrets  of  a  noble  heart. 

Upon  a  silence  that  could  be  felt  the  last 
notes  of  such  a  song  had  just  fallen.  The 
V.C.'s  lips  were  closed,  and  those  of  the  Master 
of  the  House  (who  had  been  accompanying 
him)  were  still  parted  with  a  smile  of  approval, 
when  the  wheels  of  his  chair  and  some  little 
fuss  at  the  drawing-room  door  announced  that 
Leonard  had  come  to  claim  his  mother's  prom- 
ise. And  when  Lady  Jane  rose  and  went  to 
meet  him,  the  V.C.  followed  her. 

"  There  is  my  boy,  of  whom  I  told  you. 
Leonard,  this  is  the  gentleman  you  have  wished 
so  much  to  see." 


THE    COURAGE    TO    BEAR.  Ill 

The  V.C.,  who  sang  so  easily,  was  not  a 
ready  speaker,  and  the  sight  of  Leonard  took 
him  by  surprise,  and  kept  him  silent.  He  had 
been  prepared  to  pity  and  be  good-natured  to  a 
lame  child  who  had  a  whim  to  see  him ;  but 
not  for  this  vision  of  rare  beauty,  beautifully 
dressed,  with  crippled  limbs  lapped  in  Eastern 
embroideries  by  his  color-loving  father,  and 
whose  wan  face  and  wonderful  eyes  were  lam- 
bent with  an  intelligence  so  eager  and  so  wist- 
ful, that  the  creature  looked  less  like  a  morsel 
of  suffering  humanity  than  like  a  soul  fretted 
by  the  brief  detention  of  an  all-but-broken 
chain. 

"How  do  you  do,  V.C.?  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you.  I  wanted  to  see  you  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  world.  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
seeing  me  because  I  have  been  a  coward,  for  I 
mean  to  be  brave  now;  and  that  is  why  I 
wanted  to  see  you  so  much,  because  you  are 
such  a  very  brave  man.  The  reason  I  was  a 
coward  was  partly   with  being   so  cross   when 


112  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

my  back  hurts,  but  particularly  with  hitting 
Jemima  with  my  crutches,  for  no  one  but  a 
coward  strikes  a  woman.  She  trod  on  my 
dog's  toes.  This  is  my  dog.  Please  pat  him ; 
he  would  like  to  be  patted  by  a  V.C.  He  is 
called  The  Sweep  because  he  is  black.  He 
lives  with  me  all  along.  I  have  hit  him,  but  I 
hope  I  shall  not  be  naughty  again  any  more. 
I  wanted  to  grow  up  into  a  brave  soldier,  but 
I  don't  think,  perhaps,  that  I  ever  can  now; 
but  mother  says  I  can  be  a  brave  cripple.  I 
would  rather  be  a  brave  soldier,  but  I'm  going 
to  try  to  be  a  brave  cripple.  Jemima  says 
there's  no  saying  what  you  can  do  till  you  try. 
Please  show  me  your  Victoria  Cross." 

"  It's  on  my  tunic,  and  that's  in  my  quarters 
in  Camp.     I'm  so  sorry." 

"So  am  I.  I  knew  you  lived  in  Camp.  I 
like  the  Camp,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about 
your  hut.  Do  you  know  my  uncle,  Colonel 
Jones?  Do  you  know  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Jones? 
And  my  cousin,  Mr.  Jones?     Do   you  know  a 


"You  are  nice  and  funny.     But  can  you  carry  me  ?  " 


THE    COURAGE    TO    DARE.  II3 

very  nice  Irishman,  with  one  good-conduct 
stripe,  called  O'Reilly  ?  Do  you  know  my 
cousin  Alan  in  the  Highlanders?  But  I  be- 
lieve he  has  gone  away.  I  have  so  many 
things  I  want  to  ask  you,  and  oh!  —  those 
ladies  are  coming  after  us  !  They  want  to  take 
you  away.  Look  at  that  ugly  old  thing  with  a 
hook-nose  and  an  eye-glass,  and  a  lace  shawl, 
and  a  green  dress ;  she's  just  like  the  Poll  Par- 
rot in  the  housekeeper's  room.  But  she's  look- 
ing at  you.  Mother!  Mother  dear!  Don't  let 
them  take  him  a\^ay.  You  did  promise  me, 
you  know  you  did,  that  if  I  was  good  all  to-day 
I  should  talk  to  the  V.C.  I  can't  talk  to  him 
if  I  can't  have  him  all  to  myself.  Do  let  us  go 
into  the  library,  and  be  all  to  ourselves.  Do 
keep  those  women  away,  particularly  the  Poll 
Parrot.  Oh,  I  hope  I  shan't  be  naughty !  I  do 
feel  so  impatient !  I  was  good,  you  know  I  was. 
Why  doesn't  James  come  and  show  my  friend 
into  the  library  and  carry  me  out  of  my  chair?" 
"Let    me    carry  you,  little   friend,  and  we'll 


114  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

run  away  together,  and  the  company  will  say, 
'There  goes  a  V.C.  running  away  from  a  Poll 
Parrot  in  a  lace  shawl ! '  " 

"Ha!  ha!  You  are  nice  and  funny.  But 
can  you  carry  me  ?  Take  off  this  thing  !  Did 
you  ever  carry  anybody  that  had  been  hurt  ? " 

"  Yes,  several  people  —  much  bigger  than 
you." 

"Men?"   ^ 

"Men." 

"  Men  hurt  like  me,  or  wounded  in  battle  ? " 

"Wounded  in  battle."      4 

"Poor  things!     Did  they  die?" 

"Some  of  them." 

"  I  shall  die  pretty  soon,  I  believe.  I  meant 
to  die  young,  but  more  grown-up  than  this,  and 
in  battle.  About  your  age,  I  think.  How  old 
are  you  ? " 

"  I  shall  be  twenty-five  in  October." 

"That's  rather  old.  I  meant  about  Uncle 
Rupert's  age.  He  died  in  battle.  He  was 
seventeen.     You  carry  very  comfortably.     Now 


ARE    REALLY    ONE    AND    THE    SAME.        115 

we're  safe  !  Put  me  on  the  yellow  sofa,  please. 
I  want  all  the  cushions,  because  of  my  back. 
It's  because  of  my  back,  you  know,  that  I  can't 
grow  up  into  a  soldier.  I  don't  think  I  possibly 
can.  Soldiers  do  have  to  have  such  very 
straight  backs,  and  Jemima  thinks  mine  will 
never  be  straight  again  'on  this  side  the  grave.' 
So  I've  got  to  try  and  be  brave  as  I  am ;  and 
that's  why  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Do  you  mind 
my  talking  rather  more  than  you  ?  I  have  so 
very  much  to  say,  and  I've  only  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  because  of  its  being  long  past  my  bed- 
time, and  a  good  lot  of  that  has  gone." 
"Please  talk,  and  let  me  listen." 
"Thank  you.  Pat  The  Sweep  again,  please. 
He  thinks  we're  neglecting  him.  That's  why 
he  gets  up  and  knocks  you  with  his  head." 
"  Poor  Sweep  !  Good  old  dog  !  " 
"Thank  you.  Now  should  you  think  that 
if  I  am  very  good,  and  not  cross  about  a  lot 
of  pain  in  my  back  and  my  head  —  really  a 
good  lot  —  that  that  would  count  up  to  be  as 


Il6  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

brave  as  having  one  wound  if  I'd  been  a  sol- 
dier." 

"  Certainly." 

"  Mother  says  it  would,  and  I  think  it  might. 
Not  a  very  big  wound,  of  course,  but  a  poke 
with  a  spear,  or  something  of  that  sort.  It  is 
very  bad  sometimes,  particularly  when  it  keeps 
you  awake  at  night." 

"  My  little  friend,  that  would  count  for  lying 
out  all  night  wounded  on  the  field  when  the 
battle's  over.  Soldiers  are  not  always  fight- 
ing." 

"  Did  you  ever  lie  out  for  a  night  on  a  battle- 
field ? " 

"Yes,  once." 

"Did  the  night  seem  very  long?" 

"  Very  long,  and  we  were  very  thirsty." 

"  So  am  I  sometimes,  but  I  have  barley-water 
and  lemons  by  my  bed,  and  jelly,  and  lots  of 
things.     You'd  no  barley-water  had  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"Nothing?" 


"  Did  the  night  seem  very  long  ? ' 
f«7) 


Il8      THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

"  Nothing  till  the  rain  fell,  then  we  sucked 
our  clothes." 

"It  would  take  a  lot  of  my  bad  nights  to 
count  up  to  that  !  But  I  think  when  I'm  ill  in 
bed  I  might  count  that  like  being  a  soldier  in 
hospital  ?  " 

"Of  course." 

"I  thought — no  matter  how  good  I  got  to 
be  —  nothing  could  ever  count  up  to  be  as 
brave  as  a  real  battle,  leading  your  men  on  and 
fighting  for  your  country,  though  you  know 
you  may  be  killed  any  minute.  But  Mother 
says,  if  I  could  try  very  hard,  and  think  of  poor 
Jemima  as  well  as  myself,  and  keep  brave  in 
spite  of  feeling  miserable,  that  then  (particularly 
as  I  shan't  be  very  long  before  I  do  die)  it 
would  be  as  good  as  if  I'd  lived  to  be  as  old 
as  Uncle  Rupert,  and  fought  bravely  when  the 
battle  was  against  me,  and  cheered  on  my  men, 
though  I  knew  I  could  never  come  out  of  it 
alive.  Do  you  think  it  could  count  up  to  that  ? 
Do  you?     Oh,  do  answer  me,  and  don't  stroke 


THE    COURAGE    OF    A    V.C.  II9 

my  head  !  I  get  so  impatient.  You've  been  in 
battles  —  do  you  ? " 

"  I  do,  I  do." 

"You're  a  V.C,  and  you  ought  to  know.  I 
suppose  nothing  —  not  even  if  I  could  be  good 
always,  from  this  minute  right  away  till  I  die 
—  nothing  could  ever  count  up  to  the  courage 
of  a  V.C?" 

"God  knows  it  could,  a  thousand  times 
over  ! " 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  Please  don't  go. 
Look  at  me.  They're  not  going  to  chop  the 
Queen's  head  off,  are  they  ? " 

"  Heaven  forbid !  What  are  you  thinking 
about  ? " 

"  Why,  because  —  Look  at  me  again.  Ah  ! 
you've  winked  it  away,  but  your  eyes  were 
full  of  tears  ;  and  the  only  other  brave  man  I 
ever  heard  of  crying  was  Uncle  Rupert,  and 
that  was  because  he  knew  they  were  going  to 
chop  the  poor  King's  head  off." 

"  That  was  enough  to  make  anybody  cry." 


120  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"  I  know  it  was.  But  do  you  know  now, 
when  I'm  wheeling  about  in  my  chair  and  play- 
ing with  him,  and  he  looks  at  me  wherever  I 
go ;  sometimes  for  a  bit  I  forget  about  the 
King,  and  I  fancy  he  is  sorry  for  me.  Sorry, 
I  mean,  that  I  can't  jump  about,  and  creep 
under  the  table.  Under  the  table  was  the  only 
place  where  I  could  get  out  of  the  sight  of  his 
eyes.     Oh,  dear!  there's  Jemima." 

"But  you  are  going  to  be  good?" 

"  I  know  I  am.  And  I'm  going  to  do 
lessons  again.  I  did  a  little  French  this  morn- 
ing—  a  story.  Mother  did  most  of  it;  but  I 
know  what  the  French  officer  called  the  poor 
old  French  soldier  when  he  went  to  see  him 
in  a  hospital." 

"What?" 

"  Mon  brave.  That  means  'my  brave  fellow.' 
A  nice  name,  wasn't  it  ? " 

"Very  nice.     Here's  Jemima." 

"  I'm  coming,  Jemima.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
naughty  ;    but    you  may  go  back  to  the  chair, 


J^y*  mi  if^jT  "    v 


Sometimes  I  forget  about  the  King,  and  I  fancy  he  is 
sorry  for  me." 


GOOD    NIGHT,    MON    BRAVE.  121 

for   this    officer  will  carry  me.     He   carries   so 
comfortably.     Come  along,  my  Sweep.     Thank 
you  so  much.     You  have  put  me  in  beautifully. 
Kiss  me,  please.     Good  night,  V.C." 
"Good  night,  mon  brave." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"lama  man  of  no  strength  at  all  of  body,  nor  yet  of 
mind  ;  but  would,  if  I  could,  though  I  can  but  crawl,  spend 
my  life  in  the  pilgrims1  way.  When  I  came  at  the  gate 
that  is  at  the  head  of  the  way,  the  lord  of  that  place  did 
entertain  me  freely  .  .  .  gave  me  such  things  that  were 
necessary  for  my  journey,  and  bid  me  hope  to  the  end. 
.  .  .  Other  brunts  I  also  look  for;  but  this  I  have  re- 
solved on,  to  wit,  to  run  when  I  can,  to  go  when  I  cannot 
run,  and  to  creep  when  I  cannot  go.  As  to  the  main,  I 
thank  Him  that  loves  me,  I  am  fixed ;  my  way  is  before 
me,  my  mind  is  beyond  the  river  that  has  no  bridge, 
though  I  am  as  you  see. 

"And  behold — Mr.  Ready-to-halt  came  by  with  his 
crutches  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  also  going  on  Pil- 
grimage.1' —  Buny art's  PilgrinCs  Progress. 

"And  if  we  tie  it  with  the  amber-colored 
ribbon,  then  every  time  I  have  it  out  to  put 
in  a  new  Poor  Thing,  I  shall  remember  how 
very  naughty  I  was,  and  how  I  spoilt  your 
poetry." 

(122) 


THE  BOOK  OF  POOR  THINGS.       1 23 

"Then  we'll  certainly  tie  it  with  something 
else,"  said  the  Master  of  the  House,  and  he 
jerked  away  the  ribbon  with  a  gesture  as  deci- 
sive as  his  words.  "  Let  bygones  be  bygones. 
If  /  forget  it,  you  needn't  remember  it !  " 

"  Oh,  but,  indeed,  I  ought  to  remember  it ; 
and  I  do  think  I  better  had —  to  remind  myself 
never,  never  to  be  so  naughty  again  !  " 

"  Your  mother's  own  son !  "  muttered  the 
Master  of  the  House ;  and  he  added  aloud : 
"  Well,  I  forbid  you  to  remember  it  —  so  there  ! 
It'll  be  naughty  if  you  do.  Here's  some  red 
ribbon.  That  should  please  you,  as  you're  so 
fond  of  soldiers." 

Leonard  and  his  father  were  seated  side  by 
side  at  a  table  in  the  library.  The  dog  lay  at 
their  feet. 

They  were  very  busy ;  the  Master  of  the 
House  working  under  Leonard's  direction,  who, 
issuing  his  orders  from  his  wheel-chair,  was  so 
full  of  anxiety  and  importance,  that  when  Lady 
Jane    opened    the   library-door   he    knitted    his 


124  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

brow  and  put  up  one  thin  little  hand,  in  a 
comically  old-fashioned  manner,  to  deprecate 
interruption. 

"Don't  make  any  disturbance,  Mother  dear, 
if  you  please.  Father  and  I  are  very  much 
engaged." 

"  Don't  you  think,  Len,  it  would  be  kind  to 
let  poor  Mother  see  what  we  are  doing  and  tell 
her  about  it  ? " 

Leonard  pondered  an  instant. 

"Well—  I  don't  mind." 

Then,  as  his  mother's  arm  came  round  him, 
he  added,  impetuously : 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to.  You  can  show,  Father 
dear,  and  /'//do  all  the  explaining." 

The  Master  of  the  House  displayed  some 
sheets  of  paper,  tied  with  ribbon,  which  already 
contained  a  good  deal  of  his  handiwork,  includ- 
ing a  finely  illuminated  capital  L  on  the  title- 
page. 

"  It  is  to  be  called  the  Book  of  Poor  Things, 
Mother  dear.     We're  doing  it  in  bits  first ;  then 


MAN    IS    MASTER    OF    HIS    FATE.  1 25 

it  will  be  bound.  It's  a  collection  —  a  collec- 
tion of  Poor  Things  who've  been  hurt,  like  me ; 
or  blind  like  the  Organ-tuner;  or  had  their 
heads  —  no,  not  their  heads,  they  couldn't  go 
on  doing  things  after  that  —  had  their  legs  or 
their  arms  chopped  off  in  battle,  and  are  very 
good  and  brave  about  it,  and  manage  very,  very 
nearly  as  well  as  people  who  have  got  nothing 
the  matter  with  them.  Father  doesn't  think 
Poor  Things  is  a  good  name.  He  wanted  to 
call  it  Masters  of  Fate,  because  of  some  poetry. 
What  was  it,  Father  ?  " 

"Man  is  Man  and  Master  of  his  Fate," 
quoted  the  Master  of  the  House. 

14  Yes,  that's  it.  But  I  don't  understand  it  so 
well  as  Poor  Things.  They  are  Poor  Things, 
you  know,  and  of  course  we  shall  only  put  in 
brave  Poor  Things  :  not  cowardly  Poor  Things. 
It  was  all  my  idea,  only  Father  is  doing  the 
ruling,  and  printing,  and  illuminating  for  me. 
I  thought  of  it  when  the  Organ-tuner  was  here." 

"  The  Organ-tuner  ?  " 


126  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"Yes,  I  heard  the  organ,  and  I  made  James 
carry  me  in,  and  put  me  in  the  armchair  close 
to  the  organ.  And  the  Tuner  was  tuning,  and 
he  looked  round,  and  James  said,  ■  It's  the 
young  gentleman,'  and  the  Tuner  said,  '  Good 
morning,  Sir,'  and  I  said,  '  Good  morning, 
Tuner;  go  on  tuning,  please,  for  I  want  to  see 
you  do  it.'  And  he  went  on  ;  and  he  dropped 
a  tin  thing,  like  a  big  extinguisher,  on  to  the 
floor ;  and  he  got  down  to  look  for  it,  and  he 
felt  about  in  such  a  funny  way  that  I  burst  out 
laughing.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude  ;  I  couldn't 
help  it.  And  I  said,  'Can't  you  see  it?  It's 
just  under  the  table.'  And  he  said,  '  I  can't 
see  anything,  Sir ;  I'm  stone  blind.'  And  he 
said,  perhaps  I  would  be  kind  enough  to  give  it 
him.  And  I  said  I  was  very  sorry,  but  I  hadn't 
got  my  crutches,  and  so  I  couldn't  get  out  of 
my  chair  without  some  one  to  help  me.  And 
he  was  so  awfully  sorry  for  me,  you  can't  think ! 
He  said  he  didn't  know  I  was  more  afflicted  than 
he  was ;   but  I  was  awfully  sorry  for  him,  for 


The  Organ-tuner. 

(127) 


128  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

I've  tried  shutting  my  eyes ;  and  you  can  bear 
it  just  a  minute,  and  then  you  must  open  them 
to  see  again.  And  I  said,  '  How  can  you  do 
anything  when  you  see  nothing  but  blackness 
all  along  ? '  And  he  says  he  can  do  well  enough 
as  long  as  he's  spared  the  use  of  his  limbs  to 
earn  his  own  livelihood.  And  I  said,  'Are 
there  any  more  blind  men,  do  you  think,  that 
earn  their  own  livelihood  ?  I  wish  I  could  earn 
mine  ! '  And  he  said,  '  There  are  a  good  many 
blind  timers,  Sir.'  And  I  said,  '  Go  on  tuning, 
please  :  I  like  to  hear  you  do  it.'  And  he  went 
on,  and  I  did  like  him  so  much.  Do  you  know 
the  blind  Tuner,  Mother  dear  ?  And  don't  you 
like  him  very  much  ?  I  think  he  is  just  what 
you  think  very  good,  and  I  think  V.C.  would 
think  it  nearly  as  brave  as  a  battle  to  be  afflicted 
and  go  on  earning  your  own  livelihood  when  you 
can  see  nothing  but  blackness  all  along.  Poor 
man  !  " 

"  I  do  think  it  very  good  of  him,  my  darling, 
and  very  brave." 


SWEET  ARE  THE  USES  OF  ADVERSITY.   I  20, 

"  I  knew  you  would.  And  then  I  thought 
perhaps  there  are  lots  of  brave  afflicted  people 
—  poor  things !  and  perhaps  there  never  was 
anybody  but  me  who  wasn't.  And  I  wished  I 
knew  their  names,  and  I  asked  the  Tuner  his 
name,  and  he  told  me.  And  then  I  thought  of 
my  book,  for  a  good  idea  —  a  collection,  you 
know.  And  I  thought  perhaps,  by  degrees,  I 
might  collect  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  Poor 
Things,  all  brave.  And  so  I  am  making  Father 
rule  it  like  his  Diary,  and  we've  got  the  Tuner's 
name  down  for  the  First  of  January ;  and  if  you 
can  think  of  anybody  else  you  must  tell  me,  and 
if  I  think  they're  afflicted  enough  and  brave 
enough,  I'll  put  them  in.  But  I  shall  have  to 
be  rather  particular,  for  we  don't  want  to  £11  up 
too  fast.  Now,  Father,  I've  done  the  explain- 
ing, so  you  can  show  your  part.  Look,  Mother, 
hasn't  he  ruled  it  well  ?  There's  only  one  tiny 
mess,  and  it  was  the  Sweep  shaking  the  table 
with  getting  up  to  be  patted." 

"  He  has  ruled  it  beautifully.  But  what  a 
handsome  L ! " 


I30  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"  Oh,  I  forget !  Wait  a  minute,  Father,  the 
explaining  isn't  quite  finished.  What  do  you 
think  that  L  stands  for,  Mother  dear  ? " 

"For  Leonard,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  no  !  What  fun  !  You're  quite  wrong. 
Guess  again." 

"  Is  it  not  the  Tuner's  name  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!  He's  in  the  first  of  January — I 
told  you  so.  And  in  plain  printing.  Father 
really  couldn't  illuminate  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  poor  things  !  " 

"  Of  course  he  couldn't.  It  was  silly  of  me 
to  think  so." 

"  Do  you  give  it  up  ? " 

"  I  must.     I  cannot  guess." 

"It's  the  beginning  of  ' Lcetus  sorte  mea.' 
Ah,  you  know  now !  You  ought  to  have 
guessed  without  my  telling  you.  Do  you 
remember  ?  I  remember,  and  I  mean  to 
remember.  I  told  Jemima  that  very  night.  I 
said,  '  It  means  Happy  with  my  fate,  and  in  our 
family  we  have  to  be  happy  with  it,  whatever 


NOBLESSE    OBLIGE.  I3I 

sort  of  a  one  it  is.'  For  you  told  me  so.  And 
I  told  the  Tuner,  and  he  liked  hearing  about  it 
very  much.  And  then  he  went  on  tuning,  and 
he  smiled  so  when  he  was  listening  to  the 
notes,  I  thought  he  looked  very  happy ;  so  1 
asked  him,  and  he  said,  'Yes,  he  was  always 
happy  when  he  was  meddling  with  a  musical 
instrument.'  But  I  thought  most  likely  all 
brave  poor  things  are  happy  with  their  fate, 
even  if  they  can't  tune ;  and  I  asked  Father, 
and  he  said,  ■  Yes,'  and  so  we  are  putting  it  into 
my  collection  —  partly  for  that,  and  partly, 
when  the  coat-of-arms  is  done,  to  show  that  the 
book  belongs  to  me.  Now,  Father  dear,  the 
explaining  is  really  quite  finished  this  time,  and 
you  may  do  all  the  rest  of  the  show-off  your- 
self!" 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"  St.  George  !  a  stirring  life  they  lead, 
That  have  such  neighbors  near." 

Marmion. 

"  Oh,  Jemima  !  Jemima  !  I  know  you  are  very 
kind,  and  I  do  mean  not  to  be  impatient;  but 
either  you're  telling  stories  or  you're  talking 
nonsense,  and  that's  a  fact.  How  can  you  say 
that  that  blue  stuff  is  a  beautiful  match,  and 
will  wash  the  exact  color,  and  that  you're  sure 
I  shall  like  it  when  it's  made  up  with  a  cord 
and  tassels,  when  it's  not  the  blue  I  want,  and 
when  you  know  the  men  in  hospital  haven't 
any  tassels  to  their  dressing-gowns  at  all ! 
You're  as  bad  as  that  horrid  shopman  who 
made  me  so  angry.  If  I  had  not  been  obliged 
to  be  good,  I  should  have  liked  to  hit  him  hard 
with  my  crutch,  when  he  kept  on  saying  he 
(132) 


A    BLUE    DRESSING-GOWN.  1 33 

knew  I  should  prefer  a  shawl-pattern  lined  with 
crimson,  if  I  would  let  him  send  one.  Oh, 
here  comes  Father!  Now,  that's  right;  he'll 
know.  Father  dear,  is  this  blue  pattern  the 
same  color  as  that  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  But  what's  the  matter,  my 
child  ? " 

"  It's  about  my  dressing-gown  ;  and  I  do  get 
so  tired  about  it,  because  people  will  talk  non- 
sense, and  won't  speak  the  truth,  and  won't 
believe  I  know  what  I  want  myself.  Now,  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  want.  Do  you  know  the  Hospi- 
tal Lines?" 

"  In  the  Camp  ?     Yes." 

"And  you've  seen  all  the  invalids  walking 
about  in  blue  dressing-gowns  and  little  red 
ties  ? " 

"  Yes.     Charming  bits  of  color." 

"  Hurrah  !  that's  just  it !  Now,  Father  dear, 
if  you  wanted  a  dressing-gown  exactly  like 
that  —  would  you  have  one  made  of  this?" 

"  Not  if  I   knew  it !     Crude,  coarse,  staring 


134  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

—  please  don't  wave  it  in  front  of  my  eyes, 
unless  you  want  to  make  me  feel  like  a  bull 
with  a  red-rag  before  him  !  " 

"  Oh,  Father  dear,  you  are  sensible !  (Je- 
mima, throw  this  pattern  away,  please  ! )  But 
you'd  have  felt  far  worse  if  you'd  seen  the 
shawl-pattern  lined  with  crimson.  Oh,  I  do 
wish  I  could  have  been  a  bull  that  wasn't 
obliged  to  be  Icetus  for  half  a  minute,  to  give 
that  shopman  just  one  toss  !  But  I  believe  the 
best  way  to  do  will  be  as  O'Reilly  says  —  get 
Uncle  Henry  to  buy  me  a  real  one  out  of 
store,  and  have  it  made  smaller  for  me.  And 
I  should  like  it  'out  of  store.'  " 

From  this  conversation  it  will  be  seen  that 
Leonard's  military  bias  knew  no  change.  Had 
it  been  less  strong  it  could  only  have  served  to 
intensify  the  pain  of  the  heartbreaking  associa- 
tions which  anything  connected  with  the  troops 
now  naturally  raised  in  his  parents'  minds. 
But  it  was  a  sore  subject  that  fairly  healed 
itself. 


COURAGE    AND    PATIENCE.  1 35 

The  Camp  had  proved  a  more  cruel  neigh- 
bor than  the  Master  of  the  House  had  ever 
imagined  in  his  forebodings  ;  but  it  also  proved 
a  friend.  For  if  the  high,  ambitious  spirit,  the 
ardent  imagination,  the  vigorous  will,  which 
fired  the  boy's  fancy  for  soldiers  and  soldier- 
life,  had  thus  led  to  his  calamity,  they  found 
in  that  sympathy  with  men  of  hardihood  and 
lives  of  discipline,  not  only  an  interest  that 
never  failed  and  that  lifted  the  sufferer  out  of 
himself,  but  a  constant  incentive  to  those 
virtues  of  courage  and  patience  for  which  he 
struggled  with  touching  conscientiousness. 

Then,  without  disparagement  to  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  efforts  to  be  good,  it  will  be  well 
believed  that  his  parents  did  their  best  to  make 
goodness  easy  to  him.  His  vigorous  individu- 
ality still  swayed  the  plans  of  the  household, 
and  these  came  to  be  regulated  by  those  of  the 
Camp  to  a  degree  which  half  annoyed  and 
half  amused  its  Master. 

The  As  ho  It   Gazette  was    delivered  as  regu- 


136  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

larly  as  the  Times ;  but  on  special  occasions, 
the  arrangements  for  which  were  only  known 
the  night  before,  O'Reilly  or  some  other  Or- 
derly, might  be  seen  wending  his  way  up  the 
Elm  Avenue  by  breakfast  time,  "  with  Colonel 
Jones'  compliments,  and  the  Orders  of  the  Day 
for  the  young  gentleman."  And  so  many  were 
the  military  displays  at  which  Leonard  contrived 
to  be  present,  that  the  associations  of  pleasure 
and  alleviation  with  Parades  and  Manoeuvres 
came  at  last  almost  to  blot  out  the  associations 
of  pain  connected  with  that  fatal  Field  Day. 

He  drove  about  a  great  deal,  either  among 
air-cushions  in  the  big  carriage  or  in  a  sort  of 
perambulator  of  his  own,  which  was  all  too  easily 
pushed  by  any  one,  and  by  the  side  of  which 
the  Sweep  walked  slowly  and  contentedly,  stop- 
ping when  Leonard  stopped,  wagging  his  tail 
when  Leonard  spoke,  and  keeping  sympathetic 
step  to  the  invalid's  pace  with  four  sinewy 
black  legs,  which  were  young  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  have  ranged  for  miles  over 


MILITARY    MANOEUVRES.  1 37 

the  heather  hills  and  never  felt  fatigue.  A  true 
Dog  Friend  ! 

What  the  Master  of  the  House  pleasantly 
called  "Our  Military  Mania,"  seemed  to  have 
reached  its  climax  during  certain  July  manoeu- 
vres of  the  regiments  stationed  at  Asholt,  and 
of  additional  troops  who  lay  out  under  canvas 
in  the  surrounding  country. 

Into  this  mimic  campaign  Leonard  threw 
himself  heart  and  soul.  His  camp  friends 
furnished  him  with  early  information  of  the 
plans  for  each  day,  so  far  as  the  generals  of 
the  respective  forces  allowed  them  to  get  wind, 
and  with  an  energy  that  defied  his  disabilities 
he  drove  about  after  "the  armies,"  and  then 
scrambled  on  his  crutches  to  points  of  vantage 
where  the  carriage  could  not  go. 

And  the  Master  of  the  House  went  with  him. 

The  House  itself  seemed  soldier-bewitched. 
Orderlies  were  as  plentiful  as  rooks  among  the 
elm-trees.  The  Staff  clattered  in  and  out,  and 
had   luncheon    at  unusual  hours,    and  strewed 


I38  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

the  cedar-wood  hall  with  swords  and  cocked 
hats,  and  made  low  bows  over  Lady  Jane's 
hand,  and  rode  away  among  the  trees. 

These  were  weeks  of  pleasure  and  enthusiasm 
for  Leonard,  and  of  not  less  delight  for  the 
Sweep  ;  but  they  were  followed  by  an  illness. 

That  Leonard  bore  his  sufferings  better 
helped  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  undoubt- 
edly increased ;  and  he  over-fatigued  himself 
and  got  a  chill,  and  had  to  go  to  bed,  and  took 
the  Sweep  to  bed  with  him. 

And  it  was  when  he  could  play  at  no 
" soldier-game,"  except  that  of  "being  in  hos- 
pital," that  he  made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  blue 
dressing-gown  of  regulation  color  and  pattern, 
and  met  with  the  difficulties  aforesaid  in  carry- 
ing out  his  whim. 


Orderlies  were  as  plentiful  as  rooks  among  the  elm-trees." 
(139) 


CHAPTER   X. 

u  Fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form.1' 

King  John,  Act  iii. 

Long  years  after  they  were  written,  a  bundle 
of  letters  lay  in  the  drawer  of  a  cabinet  in  Lady 
Jane's  morning-room,  carefully  kept,  each  in 
its  own  envelope,  and  every  envelope  stamped 
with  the  post-mark  of  Asholt  Camp. 

They  were  in  Leonard's  handwriting.  A 
childish  hand,  though  good  for  his  age,  but 
round  and  clear  as  his  own  speech. 

After   much    coaxing    and    considering,    and 

after  consulting  with  the  doctors,  Leonard  had 

been  allowed  to  visit  the  Barrack  Master  and 
(140) 


LIFE    IS    MADE    UP    OF    LITTLE    THINGS.        I4I 

his  wife.  After  his  illness  he  was  taken  to 
the  seaside,  which  he  liked  so  little  that  he  was 
bribed  to  stay  there  by  the  promise  that,  if  the 
doctor  would  allow  it,  he  should,  on  his  return, 
have  the  desire  of  his  heart,  and  be  permitted 
to  live  for  a  time  "in  Camp,"  and  sleep  in  a 
hut. 

The  doctor  gave  leave.  Small  quarters  would 
neither  mar  nor  mend  an  injured  spine;  and 
if  he  felt  the  lack  of  space  and  luxuries  to 
which  he  was  accustomed,  he  would  then  be 
content  to  return  home. 

The  Barrack  Master's  hut  only  boasted  one 
spare  bed-chamber  for  visitors,  and  when  Leon- 
ard and  his  dog  were  in  it  there  was  not  much 
elbow-room.  A  sort  of  cupboard  was  appro- 
priated for  the  use  of  Jemima,  and  Lady  Jane 
drove  constantly  into  the  Camp  to  see  her  son. 
Meanwhile  he  proved  a  very  good  correspond- 
ent, as  his  letters  will  show  for  themselves. 


142  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 


Letter  I. 

"  Barrack  Master's  Hut, 

«  The  Camp,  As  holt. 
"My  dear,  dear  Mother, — 

"  I  hope  you  are  quite  well,  and  Father  also. 
I  am  very  happy,  and  so  is  the  Sweep.  He 
tried  sleeping  on  my  bed  last  night,  but  there 
was  not  room,  though  I  gave  him  as  much  as 
ever  I  could.  So  he  slept  on  the  floor.  It  is  a 
camp  bed,  and  folds  up,  if  you  want  it  to.  We 
have  nothing  like  it.  It  belonged  to  a  real 
General.  The  General  is  dead.  Uncle  Henry 
bought  it  at  his  sale.  You  always  have  a  sale 
if  you  die,  and  your  brother-officers  buy  your 
things  to  pay  your  debts.  Sometimes  you  get 
them  very  cheap.     I  mean  the  things. " 

"  The  drawers  fold  up,  too.  I  mean  the  chest 
of  drawers,  and  so  does  the  wash-hand-stand. 
It  goes  into  the  corner,  and  takes  up  very  little 
room.  There  couldn't  be  a  bigger  one,  or  the 
door  would  not  open  —  the  one  that  leads  into 


LIFE    IS    MADE    UP    OF    LITTLE    THINGS.        I43 

the  kitchen.  The  other  door  leads  into  a  pas- 
sage. I  like  having  the  kitchen  next  me.  You 
can  hear  everything.  You  can  hear  O'Reilly 
come  in  the  morning,  and  I  call  to  him  to  open 
my  door,  and  he  says,  '  Yes,  sir,'  and  opens  it, 
and  lets  the  Sweep  out  for  a  run,  and  takes  my 
boots.  And  you  can  hear  the  tap  of  the  boiler 
running  with  your  hot  water  before  she  brings 
it,  and  you  can  smell  the  bacon  frying  for  break- 
fast. 

"Aunt  Adelaide  was  afraid  I  should  not  like 
being  woke  up  so  early,  but  I  do.  I  waked  a 
good  many  times.  First  with  the  gun.  It's 
like  a  very  short  thunder,  and  shakes  you. 
And  then  the  bugles  play.  Father  would  like 
them !  And  then  right  away  in  the  distance 
—  trumpets.  And  the  air  comes  in  so  fresh 
at  the  window.  And  you  pull  up  the  clothes, 
if  they've  fallen  off  you,  and  go  to  sleep  again. 
Mine  had  all  fallen  off,  except  the  sheet,  and 
the  Sweep  was  lying  on  them.  Wasn't  it 
clever  of  him  to  have  found  them  in  the  dark  ? 


144  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

If  I  can't  keep  them  on,  I'm  going  to  have 
campaigning  blankets;  they  are  sewed  up  like 
a  bag,  and  you  get  into  them. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  found  on  my  coverlet 
when  I  went  to  bed?  A  real,  proper,  blue 
dressing-gown,  and  a  crimson  tie!  It  came  out 
of  store,  and  Aunt  Adelaide  made  it  smaller 
herself.     Wasn't  it  kind  of  her? 

"I  have  got  it  on  now.  Presently  I  am  go- 
ing to  dress  properly,  and  O'Reilly  is  going  to 
wheel  me  down  to  the  stores.  It  will  be  great 
fun.  My  cough  has  been  pretty  bad,  but  it's 
no  worse  than  it  was  at  home. 

"  There's  a  soldier  come  for  the  letters,  and 
they  are  obliged  to  be  ready. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

Leonard. 

"  P.  S.  —  Uncle  Henry  says  his  father  was 
very  old-fashioned,  and  he  always  liked  him  to 
put  '  Your  dutiful  son,'  so  I  put  it  to  you. 

"All  these  crosses  mean  kisses,  Jemima  told 
me." 


CHURCH    PARADE.  I45 


Letter  II. 


"...  I  went  to  church  yesterday,  though  it 
was  only  Tuesday.  I  need  not  have  gone  unless 
I  liked,  but  I  liked.  There  is  service  every 
evening  in  the  Iron  Church,  and  Aunt  Adelaide 
goes,  and  so  do  I,  and  sometimes  Uncle  Henry. 
There  are  not  very  many  people  go,  but  they 
behave  very  well,  what  there  are.  You  can't 
tell  what  the  officers  belong  to  in  the  afternoon, 
because  they  are  in  plain  clothes ;  but  Aunt 
Adelaide  thinks  they  were  Royal  Engineers, 
except  one  Commissariat  one,  and  an  A.  D.  C, 
and  the  Colonel  of  a  regiment  that  marched  in 
last  week.  You  can't  tell  what  the  ladies  be- 
long to  unless  you  know  them. 

"You  can  always  tell  the  men.  Some  were 
Barrack  Sergeants,  and  some  were  Sappers, 
and  there  were  two  Gunners,  and  an  Army 
Hospital  Corps,  and  a  Cavalry  Corporal  who 
came  all  the  way  from  the  barracks,  and  sat 
near  the  door,  and  said   very   long   prayers   to 


I46  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

himself  at  the  end.  And  there  were  some 
schoolmasters,  and  a  man  with  gray  hair  and 
no  uniform,  who  mends  the  roofs  and  teaches 
in  the  Sunday  School,  and  I  forget  the  rest. 
Most  of  the  choir  are  Sappers  and  Commis- 
sariat men,  and  the  boys  are  soldiers'  sons. 
The  Sappers  and  Commissariat  belong  to  our 
Brigade. 

"There  is  no  Sexton  to  our  Church.  He's 
a  Church  Orderly.  He  has  put  me  a  kind  of 
a  back  in  the  corner  of  one  of  the  Officers' 
Seats,  to  make  me  comfortable  in  church,  and 
a  very  high  footstool.  I  mean  to  go  every  day, 
and  as  often  as  I  can  on  Sundays,  without  get- 
ting too  much  tired. 

"  You  can  go  very  often  on  Sunday  mornings 
if  you  want  to.  They  begin  at  eight  o'clock, 
and  go  on  till  luncheon.  There's  a  fresh  band, 
and  a  fresh  chaplain,  and  a  fresh  sermon,  and 
a  fresh  congregation  every  time.  Those  are 
Parade  Services.  The  others  are  Voluntary 
Services,    and    I    thought   that   meant   for   the 


VOLUNTARY    SERVICES.  \Arf 

Volunteers;  but  O'Reilly  laughed,  and  said, 
'  No,  it  only  means  that  there's  no  occasion  to 
go  to  them  at  all' — he  means  unless  you  like. 
But  then  I  do  like.  There's  no  sermon  on 
week  days.  Uncle  Henry  is  very  glad,  and 
so  am  I.  I  think  it  might  make  my  back 
ache. 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear  Mother,  that  you  won't 
be  able  to  understand  all  I  write  to  you  from 
the  Camp;  but  if  you  don't,  you  must  ask  me 
an4  I'll  explain. 

"  When  I  say  our  quarters,  remember  I  mean 
our  hut ;  and  when  I  say  rations  it  means  bread 
and  meat,  and  I'm  not  quite  sure  if  it  means 
coals  and  candles  as  well.  But  I  think  I'll 
make  you  a  Dictionary  if  I  can  get  a  ruled  book 
from  the  Canteen.  It  would  make  this  letter 
too  much  to  go  for  a  penny  if  I  put  all  the 
words  in  I  know.  Cousin  George  tells  me 
them  when  he  comes  in  after  mess.  He  told 
me  the  Camp  name  for  Iron  Church  is  Tin 
Tabernacle;    but  Aunt  Adelaide  says  it's  not, 


I48  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

and  I'm  not  to  call  it  so,  so  I  don't.     But  that's 
what  he  says. 

"  I  like  Cousin  George  very  much.  I  like  his 
uniform.  He  is  very  thin,  particularly  round  the 
waist.  Uncle  Henry  is  very  stout,  particularly 
round  the  waist.  Last  night  George  came  in 
after  mess,  and  two  other  officers  out  of  his  regi- 
ment came  too.  And  then  another  officer  came 
in.  And  they  chaffed  Uncle  Henry,  and  Uncle 
Henry  doesn't  mind.  And  the  other  officer 
said,  '  Three  times  round  a  Subaltern  —  once 
round  a  Barrack  Master.'  And  so  they  got 
Uncle  Henry's  sword-belt  out  of  his  dressing- 
room,  and  George  and  his  friends  stood  back  to 
back,  and  held  up  their  jackets  out  of  the  way, 
and  the  other  officer  put  the  belt  right  round 
them,  all  three,  and  told  them  not  to  laugh.  And 
Aunt  Adelaide  said,  'Oh!'  and  'You'll  hurt 
them.'  And  he  said,  ■  Not  a  bit  of  it.'  And  he 
buckled  it.  So  that  shows.  It  was  great  fun. 
"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 


"It  was  great  fun." 
(149) 


ISO  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"  P.  S. — The  other  officer  is  an  Irish  officer 
—  at  least,  I  think  so,  but  I  can't  be  quite  sure, 
because  he  won't  speak  the  truth.  I  said,  '  You 
talk  rather  like  O'Reilly;  are  you  an  Irish  sol- 
dier? '  And  he  said,  '  I'd  the  misfortune  to  be 
quartered  for  six  months  in  the  County  Cork, 
and  it  was  the  ruin  of  my  French  accent.'  So 
I  said,  '  Are  you  a  Frenchman  ? '  and  they  all 
laughed,  so  I  don't  know. 

"  P.  S.  No.  2.  —  My  back  has  been  very  bad, 
but  Aunt  Adelaide  says  I  have  been  very  good. 
This  is  not  meant  for  swagger,  but  to  let  you 
know. 

("  Swagger  means  boasting.  If  you're  a  sol- 
dier, swagger  is  the  next  worst  thing  to  running 
away.) 

"  P.  S.  No.  3.  —  I  know  another  officer  now. 
I  like  him.  He  is  a  D.A.Q.M.G.  I  would  let 
you  guess  that  if  you  could  ever  find  it  out, 
but  you  couldn't.  It  means  Deputy-Assistant- 
Quarter-Master-General.  He  is  not  so  grand  as 
you  would  think ;  a  plain  General  is  really 
grander.     Uncle  Henry  says  so,  and  he  knows." 


WHEN    GREEK    MEETS    GREEK.  15 1 

Letter    III. 

"...  I  have  seen  V.C.  I  have  seen  him 
twice.  I  have  seen  his  cross.  The  first  time 
was  at  the  Sports.  Aunt  Adelaide  drove  me 
there  in  the  pony  carriage.  We  stopped  at  the 
Enclosure.  The  Enclosure  is  a  rope,  with  a 
man  taking  tickets.  The  Sports  are  inside  ;  so 
is  the  tent,  with  tea ;  so  are  the  ladies,  in 
awfully  pretty  dresses,  and  the  officers  walking 
round  them. 

"  There's  great  fun  outside,  at  least,  I  should 
think  so.  There's  a  crowd  of  people,  and 
booths,  and  a  skeleton  man.  I  saw  his  pict- 
ure. I  should  like  to  have  seen  him,  but  Aunt 
Adelaide  didn't  want  to,  so  I  tried  to  be  Icetus 
without. 

"When  we  got  to  the  Enclosure  there  was  a 
gentleman  taking  his  ticket,  and  when  he  turned 
round  he  was  V.C.  Wasn't  it  funny?  So  he 
came  back  and  said,  'Why,  here's  my  little 
friend  ! '     And  he  said,  '  You  must  let  me  carry 


152      THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

you.'  And  so  he  did,  and  put  me  among  the 
ladies.  But  the  ladies  got  him  a  good  deal. 
He  went  and  talked  to  lots  of  them,  but  I  tried 
to  be  Icetus  without  him ;  and  then  Cousin 
George  came,  and  lots  of  others,  and  then  the 
V.C.  came  back  and  showed  me  things  about 
the  Sports. 

"  Sports  are  very  hard  work  ;  they  make  you 
so  hot  and  tired  ;  but  they  are  very  nice  to 
watch.  The  races  were  great  fun,  particularly 
when  they  fell  in  the  water,  and  the  men  in 
sacks  who  hop,  and  the  blindfolded  men  with 
wheelbarrows.  Oh,  they  were  so  funny  !  They 
kept  wheeling  into  each  other,  all  except  one,  and 
he  went  wheeling  and  wheeling  right  away  up  the 
field,  all  by  himself  and  all  wrong  !     I  did  laugh. 

"  But  what  I  liked  best  were  the  tent-pegging 
men,  and  most  best  of  all,  the  Tug-of-War. 

"  The  Irish  officer  did  tent-pegging.  He  has 
the  dearest  pony  you  ever  saw.  He  is  so  fond 
of  it,  and  it  is  so  fond  of  him.  He  talks  to  it  in 
Irish,  and  it  understands  him.     He  cut  off  the 


THEN    COMES    THE    TUG-OF-WAR.  1 53 

Turk's  head,  —  not  a  real  Turk,  a  sham  Turk, 
and  not  a  whole  one,  only  the  head  stuck  on  a 
pole. 

"  The  Tug-of- War  was  splendid  !  Two  sets 
of  men  pulling  at  a  rope  to  see  which  is  strong- 
est. They  did  pull !  They  pulled  so  hard,  both 
of  them,  with  all  their  might  and  main,  that  we 
thought  it  must  be  a  drawn  battle.  But  at  last 
one  set  pulled  the  other  over,  and  then  there 
was  such  a  noise  that  my  head  ached  dreadfully, 
and  the  Irish  officer  carried  me  into  the  tent 
and  gave  me  some  tea.  And  then  we  went 
home. 

"The  next  time  I  saw  V.C.  was  on  Sunday 
at  Parade  Service.  He  is  on  the  staff,  and 
wears  a  cocked  hat.  He  came  in  with  the 
General  and  the  A.  D.  C,  who  was  at  church 
on  Tuesday,  and  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him. 

"After  church,  everybody  went  about  say- 
ing '  Good  morning,'  and  '  How  hot  it  was 
in  church!'  and  V.C.  helped  me  with  my 
crutches,  and  showed  me  his  cross.     And  the 


154  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

General  came  up  and  spoke  to  me,  and  I  saw 
his  medals,  and  he  asked  how  you  were,  and  I 
said,  '  Quite  well,  thank  you.'  And  then  he 
talked  to  a  lady  with  some  little  boys  dressed 
like  sailors.  She  said  how  hot  it  was  in  church, 
and  he  said,  '  I  thought  the  roof  was  coming  off 
with  that  last  hymn.'  And  she  said,  '  My  little 
boys  call  it  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn  ;  they  are 
very  fond  of  it.'  And  he  said,  'The  men  seem 
very  fond  of  it.'  And  he  turned  round  to  an 
officer  I  didn't  know,  and  said,  '  They  ran  away 
from  you  that  last  verse  but  one.'  And  the 
officer  said,  *  Yes,  sir,  they  always  do  ;  so  I 
stop  the  organ  and  let  them  have  it  their 
own  way.' 

"I  asked  Aunt  Adelaide,  'Does  that  officer 
play  the  organ  ? '  And  she  said,  '  Yes,  and  he 
trains  the  choir.  He's  coming  in  to  supper.' 
So  he  came.  If  the  officers  stay  sermon  on 
Sunday  evenings,  they  are  late  for  mess.  So 
the  chaplain  stops  after  Prayers,  and  any- 
body that  likes  to  go  out  before  sermon  can. 


THE  SON  OF  GOD  GOES  FORTH  TO  WAR.   1 55 

If  they  stay  sermon,  they  go  to  supper  with 
some  of  the  married  officers  instead  of  dining 
at  mess. 

"  So  he  came.  I  liked  him  awfully.  He 
plays  like  Father,  only  I  think  he  can  play 
more  difficult  things. 

"He  says,  'Tug-of-War  Hymn'  is  the  very 
good  name  for  that  hymn,  because  the  men  are 
so  fond  of  it  they  all  sing,  and  the  ones  at  the 
bottom  of  the  church  '  drag  over '  the  choir  and 
the  organ. 

"He  said,  'I've  talked  till  I'm  black  in  the 
face,  and  all  to  no  purpose.  It  would  try  the 
patience  of  a  saint.'  So  I  said,  'Are  you  a 
saint  ? '  And  he  laughed  and  said,  '  No,  I'm 
afraid  not  ;  I'm  only  a  kapellmeister.'  So  I  call 
him  'Kapellmeister.'     I  do  like  him. 

"  I  do  like  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn.  It  begins, 
'The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war.'  That's 
the  one.  But  we  have  it  to  a  tune  of  our  own, 
on  Saints'  Days.  The  verse  the  men  tug 
with   is,    'A    noble    army,   men   and    boys.'     I 


I56  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

think  they  like  it,  because  it's  about  the  army  ; 
and  so  do  I. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 

"P.  S.  —  I  call  the  ones  with  cocked  hats 
and  feathers,  'Cockatoos.'  There  was  another 
Cockatoo  who  walked  away  with  the  General. 
Not  very  big.  About  the  bigness  of  the  stuffed 
General  in  the  Pawnbroker's  window ;  and  I  do 
think  he  had  quite  as  many  medals.  I  wanted 
to  see  them.  I  wish  I  had.  He  looked  at  me. 
He  had  a  very  gentle  face ;  but  I  was  afraid  of 
it.     Was  I  a  coward  ? 

"  You  remember  what  these  crosses  are,  don't 
you  ?     I  told  you." 

Letter   IV. 

"This  is  a  very  short  letter.  It's  only  to 
ask  you  to  send  my  book  of  Poor  Things  by 
the  Orderly  who  takes  this,  unless  you  are 
quite  sure  you  are  coming  to  see  me  to-day. 


THE    ONE-ARMED    COLONEL.  I  57 

11 A  lot  of  officers  are  collecting  for  me,  and 
there's  one  in  the  Engineers  can  print  very 
well,  so  he'll  put  them  in. 

"A  Colonel  with  only  one  arm  dined  here 
yesterday.  You  can't  think  how  well  he 
manages,  using  first  his  knife  and  then  his  fork, 
and  talking  so  politely  all  the  time.  He  has 
all  kinds  of  dodges,  so  as  not  to  give  trouble 
and  do  everything  for  himself.  I  mean  to  put 
him  in. 

"  I  wrote  to  Cousin  Alan,  and  asked  him 
to  collect  for  me.  I  like  writing  letters,  and  I 
do  like  getting  them.  Uncle  Henry  says  he 
hates  a  lot  of  posts  in  the  day.  I  hate  posts 
when  there's  nothing  for  me.  I  like  all  the 
rest. 

"Cousin  Alan  wrote  back  by  return.  He 
says  he  can  only  think  of  the  old  chap,  whose 
legs  were  cut  of  in  battle : 

'  And  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 
He  fought  upon  his  stumps  ! ' 


158  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

It  was  very  brave,  if  it's  true.     Do  you  think  it 
is  ?     He  did  not  tell  me  his  name. 

"  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 

"  P.S.  —  I  am  Icetus  sorte  mea,  and  so  is  the 
Sweep." 

Letter  V. 

"This  letter  is  not  about  a  Poor  Thing.  It's 
about  a  saint — a  soldier  saint — which  I  and 
the  chaplain  think  nearly  the  best  kind.  His 
name  was  Martin,  he  got  to  be  a  Bishop  in  the 
end,  but  when  he  first  enlisted  he  was  only 
a  catechumen.  Do  you  know  what  a  cate- 
chumen is,  dear  Mother  ?  Perhaps  if  you're 
not  quite  so  high-church  as  the  engineer  I  told 
you  of,  who  prints  so  beautifully,  you  may  not 
know.  It  means  when  you've  been  born  a 
heathen,  and  are  going  to  be  a  Christian,  only 
you've  not  yet  been  baptized.  The  engineer 
has  given  me  a  picture  of  him,  St.  Martin  I* 
mean,  and  now  he  has  printed  underneath  it,  in 


A    SOLDIER   SAINT.  I  59 

beautiful  thick  black  letters  that  you  can  hardly 
read  if  you  don't  know  what  they  are,  and  the 
very  particular  words  in  red,  '  Martin  —  yet  but 
a  Catechumen  ! '  He  can  illuminate,  too,  though 
not  quite  so  well  as  Father,  he  is  very  high- 
church,  and  I'm  high-church  too,  and  so  is 
our  Chaplain,  but  he  is  broad  as  well.  The 
engineer  thinks  he's  rather  too  broad,  but  Uncle 
Henry  and  Aunt  Adelaide  think  he's  quite 
perfect,  and  so  do  I,  and  so  does  everybody 
else.  He  comes  in  sometimes,  but  not  very 
often  because  he's  so  busy.  He  came  the  other 
night  because  I  wanted  to  confess.  What  I 
wanted  to  confess  was  that  I  had  laughed  in 
church.  He  is  a  very  big  man,  and  he  has  a 
very  big  surplice,  with  a  great  lot  of  gathers 
behind,  which  makes  my  engineer  very  angry, 
because  it's  the  wrong  shape,  and  he  preaches 
splendidly,  the  Chaplain  I  mean,  straight  out  of 
his  head,  and  when  all  the  soldiers  are  listen- 
ing he  swings  his  arms  about,  and  the  surplice 
gets  in  his  way,  and  he  catches  hold  of  it,  and 


l6o  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

oh !  Mother  dear,  I  must  tell  you  what  it 
reminded  me  of.  When  I  was  very  little,  and 
Father  used  to  tie  a  knot  in  his  big  pocket- 
handkerchief  and  put  his  first  finger  into  it  to 
make  a  head  that  nodded,  and  wind  the  rest 
round  his  hand,  and  stick  out  his  thumb  and 
another  finger  for  arms,  and  do  the  '  Yea-verily- 
man '  to  amuse  you  and  me.  It  was  last 
Sunday,  and  a  most  splendid  sermon,  but  his 
stole  got  round  under  his  ear,  and  his  sleeves 
did  look  just  like  the  Yea-verily-man,  and  I  tried 
not  to  look,  and  then  I  caught  the  Irish  officer's 
eye  and  he  twinkled,  and  then  I  laughed, 
because  I  remembered  his  telling  Aunt 
Adelaide  'That's  the  grandest  old  Padre  that 
ever  got  up  into  a  pulpit,  but  did  ye  ever  see 
a  man  get  so  mixed  up  with  his  clothes  ? '  I 
was  very  sorry  when  I  laughed,  so  I  settled 
I  would  confess,  for  my  engineer  thinks  you 
ought  always  to  confess,  so  when  our  chaplain 
came  in  after  dinner  on  Monday,  I  confessed, 
but  he  only  laughed,  till  he  broke  down  Aunt 


MARTIN YET  BUT  A  CATECHUMEN!    l6l 

Adelaide's  black  and  gold  chair.  He  is  too  big 
for  it,  really.  Aunt  Adelaide  never  lets  Uncle 
Henry  sit  on  it.  So  he  was  very  sorry,  and 
Aunt  Adelaide  begged  him  not  to  mind,  and 
then  in  came  my  engineer  in  war-paint  (if  you 
look  out  war-paint  in  the  Canteen  Book  I  gave 
you,  you'll  see  what  it  means).  He  was  in  war- 
paint because  he  was  Orderly  Officer  for  the 
evening,  and  he'd  got  his  sword  under  one  arm, 
and  the  picture  under  the  other,  and  his  short 
cloak  on  to  keep  it  dry,  because  it  was  raining. 
He  made  the  frame  himself;  he  can  make 
Oxford  frames  quite  well,  and  he's  going  to 
teach  me  how  to.  Then  I  said,  '  Who  is  it  ? ' 
so  he  told  me,  and  now  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  in 
case  you  don't  know.  Well,  St.  Martin  was 
born  in  Hungary,  in  the  year  316.  His  father 
and  mother  were  heathens,  but  when  he  was 
about  my  age  he  made  up  his  mind  he  would 
be  a  Christian.  His  father  and  mother  were  so 
afraid  of  his  turning  into  a  monk,  that  as  soon 
as  he  was  old  enough  they  enlisted  him  in  the 


l62  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

army,  hoping  that  would  cure  him  of  wanting 
to  be  a  Christian,  but  it  didn't  —  Martin  wanted 
to  be  a  Christian  just  as  much  as  ever  ;  still  he 
got  interested  with  his  work  and  his  comrades, 
and  he  dawdled  on  only  a  Catechumen,  and 
didn't  make  full  profession  and  get  baptized. 
One  winter  his  corps  was  quartered  at  Amiens, 
and  on  a  very  bitter  night,  near  the  gates,  he 
saw  a  half  naked  beggar  shivering  with  the  cold. 
(I  asked  my  engineer,  '  Was  he  Orderly  Officer 
for  the  evening  ? '  but  he  said,  '  More  likely  on 
patrol  duty,  with  some  of  his  comrades.'  How- 
ever, he  says  he  won't  be  sure,  for  Martin  was 
Tribune,  which  is  very  nearly  a  Colonel,  two 
years  afterwards,  he  knows.)  When  Martin  saw 
the  Beggar  at  the  gate,  he  pulled  out  his  big 
military  cloak,  and  drew  his  sword,  and  cut  it  in 
half,  and  wrapped  half  of  it  round  the  poor 
Beggar  to  keep  him  warm.  I  know  you'll  think 
him  very  kind,  but  wait  a  bit,  that's  not  all. 
Next  night  when  Martin  the  soldier  was  asleep 
he  had  a  vision.     Did  you  ever  have  a  vision  ? 


martin's  vision.  163 

I  wish  I  could !  This  was  Martin's  vision.  He 
saw  Christ  our  Lord  in  Heaven,  sitting  among 
the  shining  hosts,  and  wearing  over  one 
shoulder  half  a  military  cloak,  and  as  Martin 
saw  him  he  heard  him  say,  '  Behold  the  mantle 
given  to  Me  by  Martin  —  yet  but  a  Catechu- 
men ! '  After  that  vision  he  didn't  wait  any 
longer ;  he  was  baptized  at  once. 

"  Mother  dear,  I've  told  you  this  quite  truth- 
fully, but  I  can't  tell  it  you  so  splendidly  as  my 
engineer  did,  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  and  holding  out  his  cape,  and  drawing 
his  sword,  to  show  me  how  Martin  divided  his 
cloak  with  the  Beggar.  Aunt  Adelaide  isn't 
afraid  of  swords,  she  is  too  used  to  them,  but 
she  says  she  thinks  soldiers  do  things  in  huts 
they  would  never  think  of  doing  in  big  rooms, 
just  to  show  how  neatly  they  can  manage,  with- 
out hurting  anything.  The  chaplain  broke  the 
chair,  but  then  he  isn't  exactly  a  soldier,  and 
the  D.A.Q.M.G.  that  I  told  you  of,  comes  in 
sometimes  and  says,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs. 


164  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

Jones,  but  I  must,'  —  and  puts  both  his  hands 
on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  lifts  his  body  till  he 
gets  his  legs  sticking  straight  out.  They  are 
very  long  legs,  and  he  and  the  sofa  go  nearly 
across  the  room,  but  he  never  kicks  anything, 
it's  a  kind  of  athletics  ;  and  there's  another 
officer  who  comes  in  at  one  door  and  Catherine- 
wheel's  right  across  to  the  farthest  corner,  and 
he  is  over  six  foot,  too,  but  they  never  break 
anything.     We  do  laugh. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  engineer 
doing  St.  Martin.  He  had  to  go  directly  after- 
wards, and  then  the  chaplain  came  and  stood 
in  front  of  me,  on  the  hearthrug,  in  the  fire- 
light, just  where  my  engineer  had  been  stand- 
ing, and  he  took  up  the  picture,  and  looked  at 
it.  So  I  said,  'Do  you  know  about  St.  Martin?' 
and  he  said  he  did,  and  he  said,  '  One  of  the 
greatest  of  those  many  Soldiers  of  the  Cross 
who  have  also  fought  under  earthly  banners.' 
Then  he  put  down  the  picture,  and  got  hold 
of  his  elbow  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  was  holding 


Martin  —  yet  but  a  Catechumen  ! 


GODLIKE    MEN.  l6$ 

his  surplice  out  of  the  way,  and  said,  'Great, 
as  well  as  good,  for  this  reason ;  he  was  one 
of  those  rare  souls  to  whom  the  counsels  of 
God  are  clear,  not  to  the  utmost  of  the  times 
in  which  he  lived  —  but  in  advance  of  those 
times.  Such  men  are  not  always  popular,  nor 
even  largely  successful  in  their  day,  but  the 
light  they  hold  lightens  more  generations  of 
this  naughty  world,  than  the  pious  tapers  of 
commoner  men.  You  know  that  Martin  the 
Catechumen  became  Martin  the  Saint  — do  you 
know  that  Martin  the  soldier  became  Martin 
the  Bishop  ?  —  and  that  in  an  age  of  credulity 
and  fanaticism,  that  man  of  God  discredited 
some  relics  very  popular  with  the  pious  in  his 
diocese,  and  proved  and  exposed  them  to  be 
those  of  an  executed  robber.  Later  in  life  it 
is  recorded  of  Martin,  Bishop  of  Tours,  that 
he  lifted  his  voice  in  protest  against  persecu- 
tions for  religion,  and  the  punishment  of  here- 
tics. In  the  nineteenth  century  we  are  little 
able   to  judge  how  great  must   have  been  the 


l66  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

faith  of  that  man  in  the  God  of  truth  and  of 
love.'  It  was  like  a  little  sermon,  and  I  think 
this  is  exactly  how  he  said  it,  for  I  got  Aunt 
Adelaide  to  write  it  out  for  me  this  morning, 
and  she  remembers  sermons  awfully  well.  I've 
been  looking  St.  Martin  out  in  the  calendar; 
his  day  is  the  ioth  of  November.  He  is  not  a 
Collect,  Epistle,  and  Gospel  Saint,  only  one  of 
the  Black  Letter  ones ;  but  the  ioth  of  Novem- 
ber is  going  to  be  on  a  Sunday  this  year,  and 
I  am  so  glad,  for  I've  asked  our  chaplain  if  we 
may  have  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn  for  St.  Martin 
—  and  he  has  given  leave. 

"  It's  a  long  way  off ;  I  wish  it  came  sooner. 
So  now,  Mother  dear,  you  have  time  to  make 
your  arrangements  as  you  like,  but  you  see 
that  whatever  happens,  /  must  be  in  Camp  on 
St.  Martin's  Day. 

"  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"Leonard." 


CHAPTER    XL 

"  I  have  fought  a  good  fight.  I  have  finished  my 
course.     I  have  kept  the  faith.     Henceforth  —  !  " 

i  Ti?n.  iv.  7. 

It  was  Sunday.  Sunday,  the  tenth  of  No- 
vember—  St.  Martin's  Day. 

Though  it  was  in  November,  a  summer  day. 
A  day  of  that  Little  Summer  which  alternately 
claims  St.  Luke  and  St.  Martin  as  its  patrons, 
and  is  apt  to  shine  its  brightest  when  it  can 
claim  both  —  on  theieast  of  All  Saints. 

Sunday  in    Camp.     With    curious    points    of 

likeness    and   unlikeness    to    English    Sundays 

elsewhere.     Like    in    that    general    aspect    of 

tidiness  and  quiet,  of  gravity  and  pause,  which 

betrays  that  a  hard-working  and  very  practical 

people  have  thought  good  to  keep  much  of  the 
(167) 


1 68      THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

Sabbath  with  its  Sunday.  Like,  too,  in  the 
little  groups  of  children,  gay  in  Sunday  best, 
and  grave  with  Sunday  books,  trotting  to  Sun- 
day school. 

Unlike,  in  that  to  see  all  the  men  about  the 
place  washed  and  shaved  is  not,  among  soldiers, 
peculiar  to  Sunday.  Unlike,  also,  in  a  more 
festal  feeling  produced  by  the  gay  gatherings  of 
men  and  officers  on  Church  Parade  (far  distant 
be  the  day  when  Parade  Services  shall  be 
abolished !),  and  by  the  exhilarating  sounds  of 
the  Bands  with  which  each  regiment  marched 
from  its  parade-ground  to  the  church. 

Here  and  there  small  detachments  might  be 
met  making  their  way  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
church  in  Camp,  or  to  places  of  worship  of 
various  denominations  in  the  neighboring 
town ;  and  on  Blind  Baby's  Parade  (where  he 
was  prematurely  crushing  his  Sunday  frock 
with  his  drum-basket  in  ecstatic  sympathy  with 
the  bands),  a  corporal  of  exceptional  views  was 
parading  himself  and  two  privates  of  the  same 


SAINT    MARTIN'S    DAY.  169 

denomination,  before  marching  the  three  of 
them  to  their  own  peculiar  prayer-meeting. 

The  Brigade  for  the  Iron  Church  paraded 
early  (the  sunshine  and  sweet  air  seemed  to 
promote  alacrity).  And  after  the  men  were 
seated  their  officers  still  lingered  outside,  chat- 
ting with  the  ladies  and  the  Staff,  as  these 
assembled  by  degrees,  and  sunning  themselves 
in  the  genial  warmth  of  St.  Martin's  Little 
Summer. 

The  V.C.  was  talking  with  the  little  boys  in 
sailor  suits  and  their  mother,  when  the  officer 
who  played  the  organ  came  towards  them. 

"  Good  morning,  Kapellmeister !  "  said  two 
or  three  voices. 

Nicknames  were  common  in  the  Camp,  and 
this  one  had  been  rapidly  adopted. 

"Ye  look  cloudy  this  fine  morning,  Kapell- 
meister ! "  cried  the  Irish  officer.  "  Got  the 
toothache?" 

The  Kapellmeister  shook  his  head,  and  forced 
a  smile  which  rather  intensified  than  diminished 


I70  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

the  gloom  of  a  countenance  which  did  not 
naturally  lend  itself  to  lines  of  levity.  Was  he 
not  a  Scotchman  and  also  a  musician  ?  His 
lips  smiled  in  answer  to  the  chaff,  but  his 
sombre  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  V.C.  They  had 
—  as  some  eyes  have  —  an  odd,  summoning 
power,  and  the  V.C.  went  to  meet  him. 

When  he  said,  "  I  was  in  there  this  morning," 
the  V.C.'s  eyes  followed  the  Kapellmeister's 
to  the  Barrack  Master's  hut,  and  his  own  face 
fell. 

"  He  wants  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn,"  said  the 
Kapellmeister. 

"  He's  not  coming  to  church  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  but  he's  set  his  heart  on  hearing 
the  Tug-of-War  Hymn  through  his  bedroom 
window ;  and  it  seems  the  chaplain  has  prom- 
ised we  shall  have  it  to-day.  It's  a  most  amaz- 
ing thing,"  added  the  Kapellmeister,  shooting 
out  one  arm  with  a  gesture,  common  to  him 
when  oppressed  by  an  idea,  — "  it's  a  most 
amazing  thing  !     For  I  think,  if  I  were  in  my 


ES  GILT  AM  ENDE  DOCH  NUR  VORWARTS  !        I/I 

grave,  that  hymn — as  these  men  bolt  with  it 
—  might  make  me  turn  in  my  place  of  rest ; 
but  it's  the  last  thing  I  should  care  to  hear  if  I 
were  ill  in  bed !  However,  he  wants  it,  poor 
lad,  and  he  asked  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would 
turn  outside  when  it  begins,  and  sing  so  that  he 
can  hear  your  voice  and  the  words." 

"  Oh,  he  can  never  hear  me  over  there  ! " 
"  He  can  hear  you  fast  enough  !     It's  quite 
close.     He  begged  me  to  ask  you,  and  I  was  to 
say  it's  his  last  Sunday." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  V.C.  looked  at  the 
little  "  Officers'  Door,"  which  was  close  to  his 
usual  seat,  which  always  stood  open  in  summer 
weather,  and  half  in  half  out  of  which  men 
often  stood  in  the  crush  of  a  Parade  Service. 
There  was  no  difficulty  in  the  matter  except 
his  own  intense  dislike  to  anything  approach- 
ing to  display.  Also  he  had  become  more 
attached  than  he  could  have  believed  possible 
to  the  gallant-hearted  child  whose  worship  of 
him   had   been  flattery   as    delicate   as  jt    was 


172  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

sincere.  It  was  no  small  pain  to  know  that 
the  boy  lay  dying  —  a  pain  he  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  bear  in  silence. 

"  Is  he  very  much  set  upon  it  ? " 

"Absolutely." 

"  Is  she  —  is  Lady  Jane  there  ?  " 

"  All  of  them.     He  can't  last  the  day  out." 

"When  will  it  be  sung  —  that  hymn,  I 
mean  ? " 

"  I've  put  it  on  after  the  third  Collect." 

"All  right." 

The  V.C.  took  up  his  sword  and  went  to  his 
seat,  and  the  Kapellmeister  took  up  his  and 
went  to  the  organ. 


In  the  Barrack  Master's  hut  my  hero  lay 
dying.  His  mind  was  now  absolutely  clear, 
but  during  the  night  it  had  wandered  — 
wandered  in  a  delirium  that  was  perhaps 
some  solace  of  his  sufferings,  for  he  had 
believe^    himself    to    be    a    soldier  on   active 


BEYOND    THE    VEIL.  173 

service,  bearing  the  brunt  of  battle  and  the 
pain  of  wounds ;  and  when  fever  consumed 
him,  he  thought  it  was  the  heat  of  India  that 
parched  his  throat  and  scorched  his  skin;  and 
called  again  and  again  in  noble  raving  to 
imaginary  comrades  to  keep  up  heart  and 
press  forward. 

About  four  o'clock  he  sank  into  stupor,  and 
the  doctor  forced  Lady  Jane  to  go  and  lie 
down,  and  the  Colonel  took  his  wife  away  to 
rest  also. 

At  Gun-fire  Leonard  opened  his  eyes.  For 
some  minutes  he  gazed  straight  ahead  of  him, 
and  the  Master  of  the  House,  who  sat  by  his 
bedside,  could  not  be  sure  whether  he  were 
still  delirious  or  no ;  but  when  their  eyes  met 
he  saw  that  Leonard's  senses  had  returned  to 
him,  and  kissed  the  wan  little  hand  that  was 
feeling  about  for  the  Sweep's  head  in  silence 
that  he  almost  feared  to  break. 

Leonard  broke  in  by  saying,  "When  did  you 
bring  Uncle  Rupert  to  Camp,  Father  dear?" 


174  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

"Uncle  Rupert  is  at  home,  my  darling;  and 
you  are  in  Uncle  Henry's  hut." 

"  I  know  I  am ;  and  so  is  Uncle  Rupert. 
He  is  at  the  end  of  the  room  there.  Can't 
you  see  him  ?  " 

"  No,  Len ;  I  only  see  the  wall,  with  your 
text  on  it  that  poor  old  Father  did  for  you." 

"  My  '  Goodly  heritage,'  you  mean  ?  I  can't 
see  that  now.  Uncle  Rupert  is  in  front  of  it. 
I  thought  you  put  him  there.  Only  he's  out  of 
his  frame,  and  —  it's  very  odd  !  " 

"What's  odd,  my  darling?" 

"  Some  one  has  wiped  away  all  the  tears  from 
his  eyes." 


11  Hymn  two  hundred  and  sixty-three  :  '  Fight 
the  good  fight  of  faith.'  " 

The  third  Collect  was  just  ended,  and  a  pro- 
longed and  somewhat  irregular  Amen  was  dying 
away  among  the  Choir,  who  were  beginning  to 
feel  for  their  hymn-books. 


BEYOND    THE    VEIL.  1 75 

The  lack  of  precision,  the  "  dropping  shots  " 
style  in  which  that  Amen  was  delivered,  would 
iiave  been  more  exasperating  to  the  Kapell- 
meister, if  his  own  attention  had  not  been  for 
the  moment  diverted  by  anxiety  to  know  if  the 
V.C.  remembered  that  the  time  had  come. 

As  the  Chaplain  gave  out  the  hymn,  the 
Kapellmeister  gave  one  glance  of  an  eye,  as 
searching  as  it  was  sombre,  round  the  corner 
of  that  odd  little  curtain  which  it  is  the  custom 
to  hang  behind  an  organist ;  and  this  sufficing 
to  tell  him  that  the  V.C.  had  not  forgotten,  he 
drew  out  certain  very  vocal  stops,  and  bending 
himself  to  manual  and  pedal,  gave  forth  the 
popular  melody  of  the  "  Tug-of-War "  hymn 
with  a  precision  indicative  of  a  resolution  to 
have  it  sung  in  strict  time,  or  know  the  reason 
why. 

And  as  nine  hundred  and  odd  men  rose  to 
their  feet  with  some  clatter  of  heavy  boots  and 
accoutrements  the  V.C.  turned  quietly  out  of 
the  crowded   church,   and  stood    outside   upon 


1/6  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

the  steps,  bare-headed  in  the  sunshine  of  St. 
Martin's  Little  Summer,  and  with  the  tiniest 
of  hymn-books  between  his  fingers  and  thumb. 

Circumstances  had  made  a  soldier  of  the 
V.C.  but  by  nature  he  was  a  student.  When 
he  brought  the  little  hymn-book  to  his  eyes  to 
get  a  mental  grasp  of  the  hymn  before  he  began 
to  sing  it,  he  committed  the  first  four  lines 
to  an  intelligence  sufficiently  trained  to  hold 
them  in  remembrance  for  the  brief  time  that 
it  would  take  to  sing  them.  Involuntarily  his 
active  brain  did  more,  and  was  crossed  by  a 
critical  sense  of  the  crude,  barbaric  taste  of 
childhood,  and  a  wonder  what  consolation  the 
suffering  boy  could  find  in  these  gaudy  lines :  — 

"  The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  kingly  crown  to  gain  ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar ; 
Who  follows  in  His  train  ?  " 

But  when  he  brought  the  little  hymn-book  to 
his  eyes  to  take  in  the  next  four  lines,  they 


The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war. 
(177) 


178  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

startled  him  with  the  revulsion  of  a  sudden 
sympathy  ;  and  lifting  his  face  towards  the 
Barrack  Master's  hut,  he  sang — as  he  rarely 
sang  in  drawing-rooms,  even  words  the  most 
felicitous  to  melodies  the  most  sweet  —  sang 
not  only  to  the  delight  of  dying  ears,  but  so 
that  the  Kapellmeister  himself  heard  him,  and 
smiled  as  he  heard  :  — 

"  Who  best  can  drink  His  cup  of  woe 
Triumphant  over  pain, 
Who  patient  bears  His  cross  below, 
He  follows  in  His  train." 


On  each  side  of  Leonard's  bed,  like  guardian 
angels,  knelt  his  father  and  mother.  At  his 
feet  lay  the  Sweep,  who  now  and  then  lifted  a 
long,  melancholy  nose  and  anxious  eyes. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  the  Barrack 
Ma*ster.  He  had  taken  up  this  position  at 
the  request  of  the  Master  of  the  House,  who 
had  avoided  any  further  allusion  to  Leonard's 
fancy  that  their  Naseby  Ancestor  had  come  to 


BEAR    THY    CROSS.  179 

Asholt  Camp,  but  had  begged  his  big  brother- 
in-law  to  stand  there  and  blot  out  Uncle 
Rupert's  Ghost  with  his  substantial  body. 

But  whether  Leonard  perceived  the  ruse, 
forgot  Uncle  Rupert,  or  saw  him  all  the  same, 
by  no  word  or  sign  did  he  ever  betray. 

Near  the  window  sat  Aunt  Adelaide,  with 
her  Prayer-book,  following  the  service  in  her 
own  orderly  and  pious  fashion,  sometimes  say- 
ing a  prayer  aloud  at  Leonard's  bidding,  and 
anon  replying  to  his  oft-repeated  inquiry :  "  Is 
it  the  third  Collect  yet,  Aunty  dear  ?  " 

She  had  turned  her  head,  more  quickly  than 
usual,  to  speak,  when,  clear  and  strenuous  on 
vocal  stops,  came  the  melody  of  the  "  Tug-of- 
War"  hymn. 

"  There !  There  it  is !  Oh,  good  Kapell- 
meister! Mother  dear,  please  go  to  the  win- 
dow and  see  if  V.C.  is  there,  and  wave  your 
hand  to  him.  Father  dear,  lift  me  up  a  little, 
please.  Ah,  now  I  hear  him  !  Good  V.C.  !  I 
don't  believe  you'll  sing  better  than  that  when 


l80  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

you're  promoted  to  be  an  angel.  Are  the  men 
singing  pretty  loud  ?  May  I  have  a  little  of 
that  stuff  to  keep  me  from  coughing,  Mother 
dear  ?  You  know  I  am  not  impatient  ;  but  I 
do  hope,  please  God,  I  shan't  die  till  I've  just 
heard  them  tug  that  verse  once  more  !  " 


The  sight  of  Lady  Jane  had  distracted  the 
V.C.'s  thoughts  from  the  hymn.  He  was  sing- 
ing mechanically,  when  he  became  conscious 
of  some  increasing  pressure  and  irregularity  in 
the  time.  Then  he  remembered  what  it  was. 
The  soldiers  were  beginning  to  tug. 

In  a  moment  more  the  organ  stopped,  and 
the  V.C.  found  himself,  with  over  three  hun- 
dred men  at  his  back,  singing  without  accom- 
paniment, and  in  unison  — 

"A  noble  army  —  men  and  boys, 
The  matron  and  the  maid, 
Around  their  Saviour's  throne  rejoice, 
In  robes  of  white  arrayed." 


THUS    TO    THE    STARS!  l8l 

The  Kapellmeister  conceded  that  verse  to 
the  shouts  of  the  congregation ;  but  he  invari- 
ably reclaimed  control  over  the  last. 

Even  now,  as  the  men  paused  to  take  breath 
after  their  "  tug,"  the  organ  spoke  again,  softly, 
but  seraphically,  and  clearer  and  sweeter  above 
the  voices  behind  him  rose  the  voice  of  the 
V.C.,  singing  to  his  little  friend  — 

"  They  climbed  the  steep  ascent  of  Heaven, 
Through  peril,  toil,  and  pain  "  — 

The  men  sang  on  ;  but  the  V.C.  stopped,  as  if 
he  had  been  shot.  For  a  man's  hand  had  come 
to  the  Barrack  Master's  window  and  pulled  the 
white  blind  down. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged-bird's  nest  may  know 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown." 

Henry  Vaughan. 

True  to  its  character  as  an  emblem  of 
human  life,  the  Camp  stands  on,  with  all  its 
little  manners  and  customs,  whilst  the  men 
who  garrison  it  pass  rapidly  away. 

Strange  as  the  vicissitudes  of  a  whole  gen- 
eration elsewhere,  are  the  changes  and  chances 
that  a  few  years  bring  to  those  who  were 
stationed  there  together. 

To  what  unforeseen  celebrity  (or  to  a  dropping 
out  of  one's  life  and  even  hearsay  that  once 
seemed  quite  as  little  likely)  do  one's  old  neigh- 
bors sometimes  come !  They  seem  to  pass  in 
(182) 


UNWORLDLY    WISE.  1 83 

a  few  drill  seasons  as  other  men  pass  by  life- 
times. Some  to  foolishness  and  forgetfulness, 
and  some  to  fame.  This  old  acquaintance  to 
unexpected  glory  ;  that  dear  friend  —  alas  !  — 
to  the  grave.  And  some  —  God  speed  them! 
—  to  the  world's  end  and  back,  following  the 
drum  till  it  leads  them  Home  again,  with  famil- 
iar faces  little  changed  —  with  boys  and  girls, 
perchance,  very  greatly  changed  —  and  with 
hearts  not  changed  at  all.  Can  the  last  part- 
ing do  much  to  hurt  such  friendships  between 
good  souls,  who  have  so  long  learnt  to  say 
farewell ;  to  love  in  absence,  to  trust  through 
silence,  and  to  have  faith  in  reunion  ? 

The  Barrack  Master's  appointment  was  an 
unusually  permanent  one ;  and  he  and  his  wife 
lived  on  in  Asholt  Camp,  and  saw  regiments 
come  and  go,  as  O'Reilly  had  prophesied,  and 
threw  out  additional  rooms  and  bow-windows, 
and  took  in  more  garden,  and  kept  a  cow  on  a 
bit  of  Government  grass  beyond  the  stores, 
and  —  with   the   man    who   did   the    roofs,    the 


184  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

church  orderly,  and  one  or  two  other  public 
characters  —  came  to  be  reckoned  among  the 
oldest  inhabitants. 

George  went  away  pretty  soon  with  his  regi- 
ment. He  was  a  good,  straightforward  young 
fellow,  with  a  dogged  devotion  to  duty,  and  a 
certain  provincialism  of  intellect,  and  general 
John  Bullishness,  which  he  inherited  from 
his  father,  who  had  inherited  it  from  his 
country  forefathers.  He  inherited  equally  a 
certain  romantic,  instinctive,  and  immovable 
high-mindedness,  not  invariably  characteristic 
of  much  more  brilliant  men. 

He  had  been  very  fond  of  his  little  cousin, 
and  Leonard's  death  was  a  natural  grief  to  him. 
The  funeral  tried  his  fortitude,  and  his  detesta- 
tion of  "  scenes,"  to  the  very  uttermost. 

Like  most  young  men  who  had  the  honor  to 
know  her,  George's  devotion  to  his  beautiful 
and  gracious  aunt,  Lady  Jane,  had  had  in  it 
something  of  the  nature  of  worship ;  but  now 
he  was  almost  glad  he  was   going  away,   and 


UNWORLDLY    WISE.  1 85 

not  likely  to  see  her  face  for  a  long  time,  be- 
cause it  made  him  feel  miserable  to  see  her, 
and  he  objected  to  feeling  miserable  both  on 
principle  and  in  practice.  His  peace  of  mind 
was  assailed,  however,  from  a  wholly  unex- 
pected quarter,  and  one  which  pursued  him 
even  more  abroad  than  at  home. 

The  Barrack  Master's  son  had  been  shocked 
by  his  cousin's  death  ;  but  the  shock  was  really 
and  truly  greater  when  he  discovered,  by  chance 
gossip,  and  certain  society  indications,  that  the 
calamity  which  left  Lady  Jane  childless  had 
made  him  his  uncle's  presumptive  heir.  The 
almost  physical  disgust  which  the  discovery 
that  he  had  thus  acquired  some  little  social 
prestige  produced  in  this  subaltern  of  a  march- 
ing regiment  must  be  hard  to  comprehend  by 
persons  of  more  imagination  and  less  sturdy 
independence,  or  by  scholars  in  the  science  of 
success.  But  man  differs  widely  from  man, 
and  it  is  true. 

He  had   been    nearly  two  years    in    Canada 


1 86  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

when  "the  English  mail"  caused  him  to  fling 
his  fur  cap  into  the  air  with  such  demonstra- 
tions of  delight  as  greatly  aroused  the  curiosity 
of  his  comrades,  and,  as  he  bolted  to  his  quar- 
ters without  further  explanation  than  "  Good 
news  from  home !  "  a  rumor  was  for  some  time 
current  that  "Jones  had  come  into  his  fortune." 
Safe  in  his  own  quarters,  he  once  more 
applied  himself  to  his  mother's  letter,  and 
picked  up  the  thread  of  a  passage  which  ran 
thus : — 

"  Your  dear  father  gets  very  impatient,  and  I 
long  to  be  back  in  my  hut  again  and  see  after 
my  flowers,  which  I  can  trust  to  no  one  since 
O'Reilly  took  his  discharge.  The  little  con- 
servatory is  like  a  new  toy  to  me,  but  it  is  very 
tiny,  and  your  dear  father  is  worse  than  no  use 
in  it,  as  he  says  himself.  However,  I  can't 
leave  Lady  Jane  till  she  is  quite  strong.  The 
baby  is  a  noble  little  fellow  and  really  beautiful 
—  which  I  know  you  won't  believe,  but  that's 


GOOD  NEWS  FROM  HOME.         1 87 

because  you  know  nothing  about  babies  :  not  as 
beautiful  as  Leonard,  of  course  —  that  could 
never  be  —  but  a  fine,  healthy,  handsome  boy, 
with  eyes  that  do  remind  one  of  his  darling 
brother.  I  know,  dear  George,  how  greatly  you 
always  did  admire  and  appreciate  your  Aunt. 
Not  one  bit  too  much,  my  son.  She  is  the 
noblest  woman  I  have  ever  known.  We  have 
had  a  very  happy  time  together,  and  I  pray  it 
may  please  God  to  spare  this  child  to  be  the 
comfort  to  her  that  you  are  and  have  been  to 
"  Your  loving 

"Mother." 

This  was  the  good  news  from  home  that  had 
sent  the  young  subaltern's  fur  cap  into  the  air, 
and  that  now  sent  him  to  his  desk ;  the  last 
place  where,  as  a  rule,  he  enjoyed  himself. 
Poor  scribe  as  he  was,  however,  he  wrote  two 
letters  then  and  there ;  one  to  his  mother,  and 
one  of  impetuous  congratulations  to  his  uncle, 
full  of  messages  to  Lady  Jane. 


1 88  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter 
more  than  once.     It  pleased  him. 

In  his  own  way  he  was  quite  as  unworldly  as 
his  nephew,  but  it  was  chiefly  from  a  philo- 
sophic contempt  for  many  things  that  worldly 
folk  struggle  for,  and  a  connoisseurship  in 
sources  of  pleasure  not  purchasable  except  by 
the  mentally  endowed,  and  not  even  valuable  to 
George,  as  he  knew.  And  he  was  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  a  somewhat  cynical  student  of  char- 
acter. 

After  the  third  reading  he  took  it,  smiling,  to 
Lady  Jane's  morning  room,  where  she  was 
sitting,  looking  rather  pale,  with  her  fine  hair 
"  coming  down "  over  a  tea-gown  of  strange 
tints  of  her  husband's  choosing,  and  with  the 
new  baby  lying  in  her  lap. 

He  shut  the  door  noiselessly,  took  a  footstool 
to  her  feet,  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"  You  look  like  a  Romney,  Jane,  — an  unfin- 
ished Romney,  for  you  are  too  white.  If  you've 
got  a  headache,  you  shan't  hear  this  letter 
which  I  know  you'd  like  to  hear." 


MORE  PRECIOUS  THAN  RUBIES.      1 89 

"  I  see  that  I  should.  Canada  postmarks. 
It's  George." 

"  Yes ;  it's  George.  He's  uproariously  de- 
lighted at  the  advent  of  this  little  chap." 

"Oh,  I  knew  he'd  be  that.  Let  me  hear 
;     what  he  says." 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter. 
Lady  Jane's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  tender 
references  to  Leonard,  but  she  smiled  through 
them. 

"He's  a  dear,  good  fellow." 

"  He  is  a  dear,  good  fellow.  It's  a  most  borne 
intellect,  but  excellence  itself.  And  I'm  bound 
to  say,"  added  the  Master  of  the  House,  driving 
his  hands  through  the  jungle  of  his  hair,  "that 
there  is  a  certain  excellence  about  a  soldier, 
when  he  is  a  good  fellow,  that  seems  to  be  a 
thing  per  se" 

After  meditating  on  this  matter  for  some 
moments,  he  sprang  up  and  vigorously  rang  the 
bell. 

"Jane,   you're  terribly  white;  you  can   bear 


190  THE    STORY    OF   A    SHORT    LIFE. 

nothing.  Nurse  is  to  take  that  brat  at  once, 
and  I'm  going  to  carry  you  into  the  garden." 

Always  much  given  to  the  collection  and  care 
of  precious  things,  and  apt  also  to  change  his 
fads  and  to  pursue  each  with  partiality  for  the 
moment,  the  Master  of  the  House  had,  for  some 
time  past,  been  devoting  all  his  thoughts  and 
his  theories  to  the  preservation  of  a  possession 
not  less  valuable  than  the  paragon  of  Chippen- 
dale chairs,  and  much  more  destructible  —  he 
was  taking  care  of  his  good  wife. 

Many  family  treasures  are  lost  for  lack  of  a 
little  timely  care  and  cherishing,  and  there  are 
living  "examples"  as  rare  as  most  bric-a-brac, 
and  quite  as  perishable.  Lady  Jane  was  one 
of  them,  and  after  Leonard's  death,  with  no 
motive  for  keeping  up,  she  sank  into  a  condi- 
tion of  weakness  so  profound  that  it  became 
evident  that,  unless  her  failing  forces  were 
fostered,  she  would  not  long  be  parted  from 
her  son. 

Her  husband  had  taken  up  his  poem  again, 


"Nurse  is  to  take  that  brat  at  once." 
(190 


ig2  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

to  divert  his  mind  from  his  own  grief ;  but  he 
left  it  behind,  and  took  Lady  Jane  abroad. 

Once  roused,  he  brought  to  the  task  of 
coaxing  her  back  to  life  an  intelligence  that 
generally  insured  the  success  of  his  aims,  and 
he  succeeded  now.  Lady  Jane  got  well ;  out 
of  sheer  gratitude,  she  said. 

Leonard's  military  friends  do  not  forget 
him.  They  are  accustomed  to  remember  the 
absent. 

.  With  the  death  of  his  little  friend  the  V.C. 
quits  these  pages.  He  will  be  found  in  the 
pages  of  history. 

The  Kapellmeister  is  a  fine  organist,  and  a 
few  musical  members  of  the  congregation,  of  all 
ranks,  have  a  knack  of  lingering  after  Evensong 
at  the  Iron  Church  to  hear  him  "  play  away  the 
people."  But  on  the  Sunday  after  Leonard's 
death  the  congregation  rose  and  remained  en 
masse  as  the  Dead  March  from  Saul  spoke  in 
solemn  and  familiar  tones  the  requiem  of  a 
hero's  soul. 


I  LIST  NO  MORE  THE  TUCK  OF  DRUM.         I93 

Blind  Baby's  father  was  a  Presbyterian,  and 
disapproved  of  organs,  but  he  was  a  fond 
parent,  and  his  blind  child  had  heard  tell  that 
the  officer  who  played  the  organ  so  grandly  was 
to  play  the  Dead  March  on  the  Sabbath  even- 
ing for  the  little  gentleman  that  died  on  the  ' 
Sabbath  previous,  and  he 'was  wild  to  go  and 
hear  it.  Then  the  service  would  be  past,  and 
the  Kapellmeister  was  a  fellow-Scot,  and  the 
house  of  mourning  has  a  powerful  attraction  for 
that  serious  race,  and  for  one  reason  or  another 
Corporal  MacDonald  yielded  to  the  point  of 
saying,  "  Aweel,  if  you're  a  gude  bairn,  I'll  tak 
ye  to  the  kirk  door,  and  ye  may  lay  your  lug  at 
the  chink,  and  hear  what  ye  can." 

But  when  they  got  there  the  door  was  open, 
and  Blind  Baby  pushed  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  as  if  the  organ  had  drawn  him  with  a 
rope,  straight  to  the  Kapellmeister's  side. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  much  to 
Blind  Baby's  advantage,  which  did  not  end  when 
the  child  had  been  sent  to  a  Blind  School,  and 


194  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

then  to  a  college  where  he  learnt  to  be  a  tuner, 
and  "  earned  his  own  living." 

Poor  Jemima  fretted  so  bitterly  for  the  loss 
of  the  child  she  had  nursed  with  such  devo- 
tion, that  there  was  possibly  some  truth  in 
O'Reilly's  rather  complicated  assertion  that  he 
married  her  because1  he  could  not  bear  to  see 
her  cry. 

He  took  his  discharge,  and  was  installed  by 
the  Master  of  the  House  as  lodge-keeper  at  the 
gates  through  which  he  had  so  often  passed  as 
"a  tidy  one." 

Freed  from  military  restraints,  he  became  a 
very  untidy  one  indeed,  and  grew  hair  in  such 
reckless  abundance  that  he  came  to  look  like 
an  ourang-outang  with  an  unusually  restrained 
figure  and  exceptionally  upright  carriage. 

He  was  the  best  of  husbands  every  day  in  the 
year  but  the  seventeenth  of  March  ;  and  Jemima 
enjoyed  herself  very  much  as  she  boasted  to  the 
wives  of  less  handy  civilians  that  "  her  man  was 
as  good  as  a  woman  about  the  house,  any  day." 


WHAT    IS    HOME,    AND    WHERE?  I95 

(Any  day,  that  is,  except  the  seventeenth  of 
March.) 

With  window-plants  cunningly  and  ornament- 
ally enclosed  by  a  miniature  paling  and  gate, 
as  if  the  window-sill  were  a  hut  garden ;  with 
colored  tissue-paper  fly-catchers  made  on  the 
principle  of  barrack-room  Christmas  decora- 
tions ;  with  shelves,  brackets,  Oxford  frames, 
and  other  efforts  of  the  decorative  joinery  of 
O'Reilly's  evenings ;  with  a  large,  hard  sofa, 
chairs,  elbow-chairs,  and  antimacassars ;  and 
with  a  round  table  in  the  middle  —  the  Lodge 
parlor  is  not  a  room  to  live  in,  but  it  is  almost 
bewildering  to  peep  into,  and  curiously  like  the 
shrine  of  some  departed  saint,  so  highly  framed 
are  the  photographs  of  Leonard's  lovely  face, 
and  so  numerous  are  his  relics. 

The  fate  of  Leonard's  dog  may  not  readily  be 
guessed. 

The  gentle  reader  would  not  deem  it  unnat- 
ural were  I  to  chronicle  that  he  died  of  a  broken 
heart.       Failing   this    excess   of    sensibility,    it 


I96  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

seems  obvious  that  he  should  have  attached 
himself  immovably  to  Lady  Jane,  and  have 
lived  at  ease  and  died  full  of  dignity  in  his 
little  master's  ancestral  halls.  He  did  go  back 
there  for  a  short  time,  but  the  day  after  the 
funeral  he  disappeared.  When  word  came  to 
the  household  that  he  was  missing  and  had  not 
been  seen  since  he  was  let  out  in  the  morning, 
the  butler  put  on  his  hat  and  hurried  off  with  a 
beating  heart  to  Leonard's  grave. 

But  the  Sweep  was  not  there,  dead  or  alive. 
He  was  at  that  moment  going  at  a  sling  trot 
along  the  dusty  road  that  led  into  the  Camp. 
Timid  persons,  imperfectly  acquainted  with 
dogs,  avoided  him ;  he  went  so  very  straight, 
it  looked  like  hydrophobia ;  men  who  knew 
better,  and  saw  that  he  was  only  "on  urgent 
private  affairs,"  chaffed  him  as  they  passed,  and 
some  with  little  canes  and  horseplay  waylaid  and 
tried  to  intercept  him.  But  he  was  a  big  dog, 
and  made  himself  respected,  and  pursued  his 
way. 


—  BUT    WITH    THE    LOVING.  1 97 

His  way  was  to  the  Barrack  Master's  hut. 

The  first  room  he  went  into  v/as  that  in  which 
Leonard  died.  He  did  not  stay  there  three  min- 
utes. Then  he  went  to  Leonard's  own  room, 
the  little  one  next  to  the  kitchen,  and  this  he 
examined  exhaustively,  crawling  under  the  bed, 
snuffing  at  both  doors,  and  lifting  his  long  nose 
against  hope  to  investigate  impossible  places, 
such  as  the  top  of  the  military  chest  of  drawers. 
Then  he  got  on  to  the  late  General's  camp  bed 
and  went  to  sleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  smell  of  the  bacon 
frying  for  breakfast,  and  he  had  breakfast  with 
the  family.  After  this  he  went  out,  and  was 
seen  by  different  persons  at  various  places  in 
the  Camp,  the  General  Parade,  the  Stores,  and 
the  Iron  Church,  still  searching. 

He  was  invited  to  dinner  in  at  least  twenty 
different  barrack-rooms,  but  he  rejected  all 
overtures  till  he  met  O'Reilly,  when  he  turned 
round  and  went  back  to  dine  with  him  and  his 
comrades. 


I98  THE    STORY    OF    A    SHORT    LIFE. 

He  searched  Leonard's  room  once  more,  and 
not  finding  him,  he  refused  to  make  his  home 
with  the  Barrack  Master;  possibly  because  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  have  a  home  at 
all  till  he  could  have  one  with  Leonard. 

Half-a-dozen  of  Leonard's  officer  friends 
would  willingly  have  adopted  him,  but  he 
would  not  own  another  master.  Then  military 
dogs  are  apt  to  attach  themselves  exclusively 
either  to  commissioned  or  to  non-commissioned 
soldiers,  and  the  Sweep  cast  in  his  lot  with  the 
men,  and  slept  on  old  coats  in  corners  of  bar- 
rack-rooms, and  bided  his  time.  Dogs'  masters 
do  get  called  away  suddenly  and  come  back 
again.  The  Sweep  had  his  hopes,  and  did  not 
commit  himself. 

Even  if,  at  length,  he  realized  that  Leonard 
had  passed  beyond  this  life's  outposts,  it  roused 
in  him  no  instincts  to  return  to  the  Hall.  With 
a  somewhat  sublime  contempt  for  those  shreds 
of  poor  mortality  laid  to  rest  in  the  family  vault, 
he  elected  to  live  where  his  little  master  had 
been  happiest  —  in  Asholt  Camp. 


STILL    SEARCHING.  199 

Now  and  then  he  became  excited.  It  was 
when  a  fresh  regiment  marched  in.  On  these 
occasions  he  invariably  made  so  exhaustive  an 
examination  of  the  regiment  and  its  baggage,  as 
led  to  his  being  more  or  less  forcibly  adopted  by 
half-a-dozen  good-natured  soldiers  who  had  had 
to  leave  their  previous  pets  behind  them.  But 
when  he  found  that  Leonard  had  not  returned 
with  that  detachment,  he  shook  off  everybody 
and  went  back  to  O'Reilly. 

When  O'Reilly  married,  he  took  the  Sweep 
to  the  Lodge,  who  thereupon  instituted  a  search 
about  the  house  and  grounds;  but  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  had  not  expected  any  good  results, 
and  when  he  did  not  find  Leonard  he  went 
away  quickly  down  the  old  Elm  Avenue.  As 
he  passed  along  the  dusty  road  that  led  to 
Camp  for  the  last  time,  Vie  looked  back  now 
and  again  with  sad  eyes  to  see  if  O'Reilly  was 
not  coming  too.  Then  he  returned  to  the 
Barrack  Room,  where  he  was  greeted  with 
uproarious  welcome,  and  eventually   presented 


200      THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 

with  a  new  collar  by  subscription.  And  so, 
rising  with  gunfire  and  resting  with  "lights 
out,"  he  lived  and  died  a  Soldier's  Dog. 


The  new  heir  thrives  at  the  Hall.  He  has 
brothers  and  sisters  to  complete  the  natural 
happiness  of  his  home,  he  has  good  health, 
good  parents,  and  is  having  a  good  education. 
He  will  have  a  goodly  heritage.  He  is  develop- 
ing nearly  as  vigorous  a  fancy  for  soldiers  as 
Leonard  had,  and  drills  his  brothers  and  sisters 
with  the  help  of  O'Reilly.  If  he  wishes  to 
make  arms  his  profession  he  will  not  be 
thwarted,  for  the  Master  of  the  House  has 
decided  that  it  is  in  many  respects  a  desirable 
and  wholesome  career  for  an  eldest  son.  Lady 
Jane  may  yet  have  to  buckle  on  a  hero's  sword. 
Brought  up  by  such  a  mother  in  the  fear  of  God, 
he  ought  to  be  good,  he  may  live  to  be  great, 
it's  odds  if  he  cannot  be  happy.  But  never,  not 
in  the  "  one  crowded  hour  of  glorious  "  victory, 


NOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE.      201 

not  in  years  of  the  softest  comforts  of  a  peace- 
ful home,  by  no  virtues  and  in  no  success  shall 
he  bear  more  fitly  than  his  crippled  brother 
bore  the  ancient  motto  of  their  house:  — 

"ILaetus  $orte  Men" 


THE    END. 


YB  3"" 


/  W    /  KJ 


/\* 


